


All The Blood That I Would Bleed

by truglasgowgal



Series: Certain Things [1]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Gen, Kid Fic, Let us not pretend there's plot here, it's a series of moments that span fourteen-odd years, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-17
Updated: 2013-12-17
Packaged: 2017-12-26 22:07:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 40,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/970808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/truglasgowgal/pseuds/truglasgowgal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just because they’re not there all the time, doesn’t mean they’re not there when it matters. It doesn’t mean they don’t care.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Six Months

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing here. Title from the lyrics to ‘Ho Hey’ by The Lumineers. I’m particularly partial to the version by the Stella sisters, which just so happens to be featured on the tv show Nashville, so there’s youtube clips if you’re curious – but the original works too in a pinch ;)
> 
> A/N: So while it should be obvious that I’ve used various sources and borrowed and blended from multiple facets, this is supposed to be firmly set in the Marvel Cinematic Universe. As such here is your WARNING: SPOILERS for any and all films that have been released thus far, including the trailers for upcoming releases and possibly set photos also.
> 
> This is the first fic I’ve posted in this fandom (and on this site) and I do so hope you enjoy it :)

.

 

" _To be honest, you're the only one I've ever spent this much time and effort on. And it's worth it."  
_ _ **Notebook of Love**_

 

.

He's six months old when it starts.

Well, no,  _technically_  it starts before he's even born.

But really, it starts when he's six months old.

.

Clint arrives too late.

That's about the crux of it.

There's an assault team positioned out front, and another advancing round the side of the building, ready to breach. Glass shatters as the panes are shot out before the synchronized drop of flashbangs, and there's a shuffle of material across old wooden floorboards at the sudden intrusion.

Multiple bangs resonate from the space beneath him. 9-bangers: one, two, three, four,  _five_  of them. He counts. Either someone just got a new batch in, or they're of the opinion this is the only way to gain the upper hand over an opponent such as her. To overload her senses, to momentarily disorientate her, before they storm the place and attempt to subdue her.

Clint knows their style, knows they'll let the stun grenades do their work and then add some gas to the mix to really make it a party worth sticking around for.

Then they'll go in for her.

It means he knows what to expect, gives him a window of opportunity to get in before they do, get out before they do too.

If he'd been earlier, though, he'd have seen it. If he'd stayed in his position across the street instead of involving himself here and now, so close and unable to stop himself dropping through the skylight he's just installed; he'd have seen it.

The flashes from the stun grenades light up the windows like they're stained glass murals of The Crucifixion.

If they hadn't been so focused on their preferred outcome they'd have seen it too.

What's the use of an extraction when she's already been neutralized?

There's nothing to constrict his hearing, so when the screams start they pass right through the ceiling and into his ear canal like sonic waves.

It's not her, but this is worse.

No one else is supposed to be here.

No one else is supposed to be mixed up in all this.

No one else is supposed to be hurt; trapped inside and screaming.

Soles connect with the floor, knees bending and hands releasing to accommodate the perfect landing.

Clint enters the room to the sound of more canisters hitting the floorboards and he tugs his collar up, shifting his scarf to ensure his nose and mouth are covered.

Fingers grip the edge of a nearby table, threatening to unfurl as the shake of bended legs warns of a tandem collapse.

He kneels down, hands molding to curves as he pulls and twists the body round until he feels the breath seep staccato into the hollow by his shoulder.

"I got you," he murmurs, already on the move, "You're ok. I got you, kid."

Tiny hands clasp together, gripping the short hairs at the base of his neck, heels digging into the ridges of his vest.

The kid clings to him and soon the little line of vertebrae stop shifting beneath his palm and the breath falls steady against his skin. For the first time since this all started, he stops screaming.

.

"I wouldn't go that way," is the calm observation he bestows upon the escapee.

"You from around here?" The return question is directed at Phil along the serrated edge of a nasty-looking blade. It looks just as wicked as it's intended in the hand that wields it; oddly maybe even more when the other is holding a young child swaddled close to his chest.

Phil lifts his eyes from the weapon as he inquires, "You planning to cut me if I say no?"

The man doesn't respond.

He opts for something different. "Or if I say yes?"

"You wanna play guide? Go ahead," the carrier tells him in a gruff tone, inclining his head towards the alley on his other side. "Let's go back the way you just came."

He focuses in on the man's eyes; where the land meets the sky and people get lost in between.

"Do I need to mention if you try anything I'm gonna cut you?" The man jerks his head forward with the words, and it doesn't seem an intimidation tactic so much as a jolt to get him to proceed.

They need to keep moving. They've been stationary too long already.

"I gathered as much from the gestures and your reluctance to relinquish the blade," Phil replies, tone as genial as ever. "But thank you for clarifying your intent."

The man lifts his eyebrows, and it's not quite impatience; it seems more exasperation if anything.

They really should get going.

"Would you like to relieve me of my weapons?" He doesn't let his eyes flicker to any of the places on his person where such items are currently stored, but he does curve his lips with the remark, "I have several."

The quick scan across his body tells him that the man is well aware of this, intends to play on such knowledge like this is a challenge to be overcome.

"Nah," is the easy dismissal, and there's a quirk of another set of lips, "Keeps things interesting."

A game to be won, then.

"You'd let it fall down to reaction time?" Phil questions, "A test of reflexes?"

There's a roll of shoulders like he's not weighed down by a body and a weapon. "Why not?"

He shrugs in clothes often too cumbersome for this sort of work. Well outside the mission parameters now, he doesn't respond. He starts walking the route back the way he did indeed come; he thought undetected. He should've known not to underestimate his opponent. The man who watches from afar, hides in the shadows, waits it out through wind and rain and snow, takes the shot and never misses. The man they say has eyes like a hawk.

"Are you planning on using the child as a distraction?" he aims for a conversational tone; finds it a tried and tested method of achieving progress in any situation.

"You planning on killing him if he distracts  _you_  too much?" The man, this  _Hawk_ , responds.

That's the sort of thing that has Phil thinking maybe that folder of his should be a little thicker; the things this Hawk has seen in his time. No one's ever accused him of having the look of a baby killer about him before.

"I remember you," Phil divulges, when they've walked far enough along the route for long enough that he knows they won't be disturbed. Not that he'd really been expecting an ambush: he had a front row seat to the fireworks show left in the Hawk's wake and it wasn't even the Fourth, but sometimes life's just good to him like that.

"Oh yeah?" the incredulity he hears in that tone is mingled with enough sarcasm that he can easily envision the expression that accompanies it, "I'm told I'm not too memorable, got one of those faces people just forget in a crowd."

"I suppose that comes in handy," he agrees with the carrier, "When you've just assassinated the leader of the biggest cartel in all of South America."

He turns his head slowly to the side, watches the Hawk as the Hawk watches him.

"Like I said," he repeats, and there's that smile again, that mild-mannered tone he's long since perfected, "I remember you."

The eyes of the escapee are still on him; the knife still brandished between well-worn knuckles and toughened skin and pointed at Phil's person.

"So this is your way of evening the score." Not a question; which is a reflection of the Hawk's history in itself. Nobody does something for nothing, and everyone expects something in return.

"So you remember me as well?" The prospect pleases him: eyes like a hawk and the memory to go with.

"I remember you nearly bleeding out in the dirt, alone," comes the snipe in return, "I remember thinking:  _What the Hell is this fuckin' suit doing now?_ Right before I watched you go down." Funny: Phil vaguely remembers hearing words to that effect at the time too. "I remember you handed me your card instead of thanking me for saving your life."

"The organization I work for, we monitor potential threats," he says, shrugs like the two go hand in hand, and indeed often they do, "Doesn't mean we can't lend a hand when said threat is under fire themselves."

"So you took a bullet for me instead of neutralizing me and I stopped it from killing you instead of doing it myself," is the Hawk's interpretation of events, "We're already even."

"Doesn't mean I can't lend a hand," Phil reiterates, and holds out his own to literally do just that. "I know a guy. Want me to take the kid?"

"No."

He tilts his head to try and angle a look at the infant. "Is he ok?"

The child is turned bodily away from him, shielded further from his view with the curt: "He's fine."

"How can you be sure?" He poses it like an innocent enquiry; although the words and the situation hold enough weight that he knows he's not fooling the other.

The movement is minute, caught between the flicker of his eyes after the closure of a blink against the ash in the air. Were it anyone else accompanying this man and his charge it would have gone unnoticed. Phil has spent the better part of this journey cataloguing the man and his motives; another up-close-and-personal encounter to add to the mission report of yesteryear and the file as thick as a brick and devoid of any real substance to go with it.

 _I'm not_ , the admission or something similar seems to flitter through the man's mind like Phil himself is in possession of one of Stark's gizmos and able to translate every word,  _but he will be_. There's too much truth in that; the words will never make it as far as his tongue.

"Because," the Hawk is choosing the moment and his words carefully; choosing to respond at all.

Phil hears the lessons he was taught when he was young:  _ **because**_ _is not an answer; now tell me something real, something true_.

He watches the words the other still refuses to say filter through the flash of color in his eyes, the quick lock of his jaw, the shift of veins across the muscles in his arm:  _because he's not crying, because there's no blood, because he's still breathing_ ; until the man settles on something real, something true: "Because I know."

He nods and doesn't say anything.

The Hawk doesn't drop the knife, but he does gesture for Phil to keep moving with his eyes rather than the blade. He'd call that progress. And an early win for mild-mannered, conversational guys everywhere.

.

"He's Mockingbird's?" the Suit poses it like a question, like he has so many other things that are really statements coming from his mouth; because he already knows too damn much for his own good, for Clint's liking. "That was her hidey-hole back there? The one you blew sky high with all those men inside, before I could order a retrieval team? Sure to generate a lot of paperwork. Thank you for that."

He resists the urge to bite out,  _not anymore_ , in response to the first section and,  _you're welcome_ , in regards to the second. Instead he says, "She called herself Huntress."

"I know," the man confirms that he does in fact know too damn much, "It was her cover ID. Part of the mission mandate was that no one could know who she was really working for. It worked a little too well in the end."

"Was I part of the mission mandate too?" he spits out; because at this point, with the Suit spilling more than he probably should Clint might as well fish for more and see what catches.

There's a genial shrug. "Not the one I read."

"Right, and you know everything." He's not sure if he's aiming for sarcastic or scathing with that one; he's not sure he's ever cared to analyze the tone of his words this much before. He's never had to. You can't analyze something that can't be seen, and he works very hard not to be seen.

"I wouldn't presume so, but that's to be expected," the Suit divulges this like the words are easy, and the implications clear. He might not hold the spot of Top Dog around their parts, but he still knows too damn much around these ones.

"Spies and their secrets," Clint remarks, and this time it is scathing.

"While we are in the business of harvesting secrets," comes the response, matter-of-fact, just like the next part: "You seem to have a habit of silencing the holders of such secrets."

"Time is money," he schools the other in one of the basic philosophies he's followed his entire life, rolls his shoulders and passes blame, "Long as I've known, tardiness always carries a punishment of some sort."

That almost makes the Suit smile, but it might be the double meaning that pulls him up short.

"You know about what happened back there?" Clint asks; figures it don't so much matter at this stage if he lies or not, except the knife in his hand may actually end up buried between flesh and bone and the kid would end up with more than just soot and ash covering him.

"She'd been off our radar for a long time," the Suit tells him, and he's inclined to believe that since he was likely on her radar during much of that period and he's not turned up dead yet at the hands of the government or something similar, "And there hasn't been an incident involving a really big stick in quite some time. The higher ups declared her Missing, Presumed KIA. I suppose I'll have to call in at some point to confirm their suspicions now."

"'Your lot in the habit of making stupid-ass decisions regarding the status of your operatives? And then just broadcasting them to the world, telling anyone who asks what's going on with them?" He'd like a truthful answer to that one given he has more than an inkling of where this day is heading, but he doubts that's what he'll get. No one ever likes to advertise their shortcomings. He shakes his head, announces, "No wonder I got to all those folks before you."

The Suit chooses to ignore that blatant dig at his employer's incompetence, or maybe just their unfortunate display of _tardiness_.

"Depends on the threat," he replies to the original line of questioning; eyes crinkling at the edges, lips curving along one side, "Depends on the clearance level."

"Hence the suit," Clint observes.

This time the man does smile.

"I prefer it to the skintight lycra number," is the accompanying quip, "It clings in all the wrong places."

If he hadn't been clued in earlier; hadn't survived the company on a previous occasion, he'd know for sure now: the Suit has a peculiar sense of humor, finely tuned, and wily enough to get under your skin.

"So, you going to keep him?" the other pipes up after they've transferred from the winding city back streets to the dirt tracks that lead them further and further away from the general populous.

He keeps checking in on the kid, but there's not been a peep out of him since just after this all began. Clint's sorta glad for the quiet; he's got enough noise coming from the Suit without trying to settle a screaming baby on top of it.

The kid's still pressed flat against the Kevlar of his chest though; like he figures the closer he can get to the skin underneath the safer he'll be. Like this is how she used to hold him and it's all he knows. And _fuck,_ if that doesn't twist Clint's insides and make him want to gouge out the guilt already clawing at his marrow, desperate to be entrenched in his bones like so many other things he'll never be rid of now; buried too deep to be anything but a part of him.

" _She_  wasn't supposed to keep him," he replies, his frustration carrying from his tightly wound form to wrap around each word as it leaves him, "He wasn't supposed to be here, he was supposed to be safe; with some stranger mom-and-dad who could give him what we couldn't. He wasn't supposed to be part of all this."

There's not a word in response, and he swings his head round to scrutinize the other.

"What?" he barks out, because he's choosing now to shut up? That's just un-fucking-believable that is. "Suddenly you've got nothing to say?"

The Suit rolls his shoulders. "I thought it a tad redundant to point out the obvious, although by all means if you'd prefer I went ahead and did so I'd be happy to oblige."

He voices the thought as it repeats in his mind, muttering "Un-fucking-believable" to the wind.

"You know, given your current situation, I'd venture most people would be of the opinion it's rather fortunate that our paths have once again crossed as they have." The other remarks on it in that gratingly pleasant tone he seems to adopt more often than not, like it really is a wonderful fateful occurrence: the two of them being here, in the same place, at the same time. Except Clint's never been one for coincidences and there's something in the words, wielded like a weapon, slipping out just before they're morphed by that delicate twist of plucky red, that screams at him:  _stop being an ungrateful shit and take my damn help._ Of course, that might just be repressed issues from his childhood playing interpreter to a perfectly legitimate, not at all loaded, statement.

He maintains a healthy dose of skepticism for moments like this, so he figures he should utilize its existence, and side-eyes the other with the observation, "Yeah, your timing's really something, huh?"

The Suit smiles again; it's somewhat unsettling at this stage, especially when he's still choosing to act all genial and mild-mannered when Clint knows he can be anything but. "Thank you."

Clint keeps his mouth shut. He's still yet to decide if the Suit's actually doing him a favour here or not. He'll reserve judgement until this plays out a little longer: if he's going to end up owing the man for a lifetime, he wants to make sure he's good for it.

.

They're trekking through the woods – the fuckin'  _woods_  – and though he reckons it'd be a bit pointless for the Suit to have led him all this way only to ambush him now, he's not putting anything past the man. There's a small clearing up ahead that you'd only really notice up this close and personal, with a tiny piece of property resting neatly inside an alcove of bark and leaves.

He's not seen places like this since he was a kid, and even then they were surrounded by cornfields and shit, not in middle of a forest like they're about to step into some nut-job's woodcutting shed. If it turns out this place belongs to some fuckwit obsessed with Hansel and Gretel, and they're here as part of a mighty ridiculous, not to mention crazy elaborate, ruse to sacrifice the kid, Clint's gonna burn this whole fucking forest to the ground.

Observant though he's been throughout the journey, his senses feel like they've been working overdrive since they ditched the car that got them farther and faster than their legs could take them and the woodland started getting denser and denser until it pretty much encased them in tree sap and pine leaves and whatever else is molting off the woodwork here. So while he'd normally be inclined to call this place a  _shack_ , he's picked up on some signs that might just point in another direction: namely the kind that suggest this little backcountry hidey-hole has a shitload of advanced technology lingering within.

"Darling!" is the exclamation as they draw closer to the… residence.

The woman standing just over the threshold has a mostly unassuming look about her; her arms stretched out to the side, like she's beckoning them forward for a warm embrace. Clint's not fooled: he's spent most of his life around people who project one image to the masses while living in someone else's skin behind closed doors.

She tilts her head to the side, sweeping back the gray as it falls in practiced dominance over the blonde underneath. Her eyes crinkle with the words, "Uch, and you brought guests – how kind!"

The sarcasm overloading her tone is evident, but whether that means she's genuinely put out by their arrival remains to be seen.

"You're not the only one who prefers to watch from afar," the Suit leans across to tell him, pulling back with a smile. "Hawkeye."

He chooses to take the positive from that statement, and give an internal high-five to his instincts. If you think someone's watching you, they probably are.

"You know a guy, do you?" he says instead, calling the man out on his earlier choice of words.

"I know a guy," the Suit repeats.

When he turns there's that fucking smile again, only it's laced with far more smugness than before.

"Jack," the man inclines his head towards their host, lips tugging and pulling in opposite directions with that one word alone, as he steps inside.

Clint gives a short, silent nod to the woman,  _Jack_ , and follows just after.

She moves to join them and closes the door behind her, keeping a watchful eye on the outside world before retreating back inside her own.

"And here was me thinking you'd gone and lost my address," she comments airily, gesturing between them, "But no, you were just biding your time while you gathered up the strays. So thoughtful of you."

The Suit ignores her jab and instead answers to the pursed lips, the raised eyebrows, the arms crossed over her chest. Toted up it's expectation easily interpreted: she knows they want something from her. "My friend here is in need of your assistance."

She doesn't bother to ask which one, though her eyes skirt across to Clint as if to say,  _Oh really?_

He'd bet she's more than a smidge amused, but there's no trace of humor when she speaks, "Are we talking domestic or international?"

Of course just because something's not immediately visible doesn't mean it's not there.

"A little of both, I'd imagine," is the man's response, and there's no hesitation in it; no shame in such an admission. He wonders if there should be; maybe something of an apology for the added workload at least.

She's older than him, this  _Jack_  woman; older than the Suit too. She shows it in the way she gets pissed at the other, lines carved out on her face leaving crinkles of residue that weren't there before; like she's already exasperated with this whole routine of his as she rephrases, "Ok, how about this: are we talking local to me and mine, or – "

"How about you both stop trying to riddle me out of this little chat you're having and tell me what your plans are here?" is Clint's suggestion, cutting her off. That he does give an apology for – well, half an apology, of sorts. He tilts his head and lifts the shoulder not playing pillow to the kid's puffy little cheek. She seems to get the gist of what he's getting at. She smiles.

Then she nods at the Suit and comments, "You know I might actually like this one." A wrist less than half the size of his own slips through the space between the trio, her pointer finger displacing the air around it, "That's you scored two now, boyo, well done you."

He looks between them, eyebrows raised, waiting for one or both to explain their intentions. He knows they will. People always do.

"Your buddy over here wants me to take the kid off your hands," Jack tells him, but makes no physical move to actually do such a thing.

"I got that part," he grits out, "What? You think I trekked all this way through the freakin' wilderness without expecting to meet a forger. That part, I know. What else?"

"No, not just get you the papers, that I could do if I was three sheets to the wind or about ready to keel over into the Lord's arms," she fobs off, rolls her eyes and almost looks a touch insulted at the insinuation that that's  _all_ she does here. Did he mention the shit-ton of electric and machinery in the place? Yeah, ok, so maybe not just a forger. "He wants me to  _raise_ the kid."

That information takes a moment to sink in; along with all the other data he's acquired since he ditched the ambush squad and fashioned himself as a tag-along for the government-issue mountain guide. He's lived in some shitty places in his life; a good fair few of those happening before he was even in his teens, and though this doesn't come close to those; it's not far enough away for his liking either.

"He wants you to raise the kid?" he repeats, turns to the Suit and does the same, "You want  _her_ to raise the kid?"

"I am standing right here, you know," she remarks at that. "And I take exception to your tone – there ain't nothing wrong with  _me_ ," she informs him smartly, looks him up and down, and nods at the bundle in his arms and the makeshift bag of supplies that goes with. "After all, I'm not the one trying to get rid of a baby."

He doesn't answer her on that; he has his reasons. He supposes that's what everyone tells themselves when they shuck responsibility and leave their own on other folk's doorsteps, but he couldn't really give a shit. He knows why he's doing this. It's for the kid. And it'll be worth it. It will.

The kid will be alive for one; which is a pretty top-notch place to start in his book.

He still has rules though: "I'm not having him grow up in some hillbilly shack in the middle of the woods."

Jack looks set to howl with laughter at that one. "Oh honey, if only you knew half of what this place has to offer." She shakes her head, but no secrets fall out.

"There are worse places to grow up," the Suit mentions, like he's telling Clint to pick and choose his battles; that compromise is key here.

"There's better places too," he returns, and he means it.

He's not giving the kid to her so she can raise him like Mowgli in  _The Jungle Book_. He doesn't want him shut away in some little tree house, living off the land and making nice with all the animals. He wants what he can't give him. He wants a home for the kid.

"Well, Hell, Pick and Choosy, maybe I don't feel like moving after all," she throws out, hands in the air and shaking her head at them like she should've known she'd be dealing with two ungrateful wretches when they first appeared on her doorstep with an infant in tow. "Or doing this for you, which you  _should_ really be on your knees groveling for."

"Jack," the Suit says, but she doesn't stop, instead she rounds on him again with her next line.

"And can I say? You have a right brass neck on you, Phillis." She shoots a pointed look his way, and a shock of white cuts through one of her blue eyes with the angle and sharpness of her gaze.

It doesn't seem like she expects an apology for the action, and it's not like she's likely to get one anytime soon either.

The other man turns to Clint with that last remark and swiftly rattles off, "Not actually my name, do not go getting any ideas."

He does allow a smirk; it might be unwise, but he's not about to pass up the opportunity completely. He tucks that little tidbit away where the ideas have already started to form; as they always do.

"He's right," the woman agrees, though it's a begrudging statement at best, made up for by the amusement that split her cheeks this time with beaming lips and gleeful words, "But can you tell how it annoys him so?"

She seems content to share that much with him; smile and all, before she turns back to look at the Suit with a narrowed-eyed gaze and puffs out a sigh.

"Which is a good thing," she points out, "Since I did actually like this place, you know," she informs him, and she jabs the air with her finger as she tells him, "And I want that noted in that little noggin of yours when I remind you twenty years down the line of this absolutely gigantic favor I'm doing for you."

"Noted," the man confirms; and Clint notes that she's already talking in the past tense, which is good for them, he supposes, since it means she's agreed already. Something tells him the Suit had known she would all along. "Now," his genial smile is back, brows lifting a touch as he prompts, "Can we proceed?"

Apparently he uses that expression on everyone, and she knows it. She pulls out a nearby chair and plonks herself down on it without ceremony. Then reaching over to start pulling sheets and various instruments from drawers, she boots up some complex-looking system on her computer; muttering the whole time about  _bloody men_ and  _all these years, nothing's changed_  and  _never learn, always bailing them out._

When she's apparently finished prepping her tools, she spins round in the chair and fits Clint with a smile that looks as real as the pain behind the flash of white in her eyes, "Now, your little bundle of not-so-joy got a name?"

.

"Francis," he replies when prompted. He has no idea if that's what she actually named the kid, knowing Bobbi probably not. Or if she did, she'd have called him by some nickname like Swan Song or White Noise. So it's something Clint would like to give him, if he can.

His palms are rough from years of abuse and exposure, but the kid doesn't stir beneath his hand as he brushes some of those white-blond strands across his little forehead, though they pose no real risk of falling over his tiny closed lids.

"Got a second name?"

Jack's still watching him when he looks back up from the tiny human resting against the dip in his shoulder.

He pauses, catches himself before he says his own: he doubts he'll be granted such an indulgence and even if he was the point is to keep the kid safe, not paint an almighty target on his back as soon as he ups sticks and leaves him. "Thought you'd just make one up, or base it off whatever it says on some poor dead kid's gravestone."

"Crude," she comments, though she relents, "But not wholly inaccurate."

He waits for her to continue, eyebrows raised, and she heaves a sigh, rolling her eyes.

"Look I'm one of the best at what I do, which means I can do as I please. You want the kid to have your name, the kid can have your name," Jack tells him, "Can't guarantee how long it'll stick, mind, but he can have it for the time being. Ok?"

"One of the best?" he questions instead of offering up his own namesake on the kid's behalf.

"Yes,  _one_  of the best," she repeats, and then expands with, "Don't wanna  _be_  the best or they hound your ass for everything and nothing. Your face gets plastered all over the place, people try talk to you like they know you," she shakes her head, resolute, "No thanks, leave that to the boy-geniuses of the world. Anonymity becomes me and I prefer it that way," and then she concedes with a wink and a smile, "And quite frankly I'm getting too old for that shit."

"But not too old for this?" He's always been told he's quick on the uptake; sometimes too quick for his own good.

"It's Morse," the Suit cuts in before they can continue.

Clint looks to the older man, who simply raises a brow that seem to say,  _you would have preferred your own?_

He shrugs and concedes the point.

"Morse as in  _Doc_?" Jack directs at the Suit, and there's that flash of white on blue again; only it lingers a little longer this time. A tell. "As in  _Bobbi_?" she demands, "This is her kid? And you two were just going to palm him off to me without a word to his mother? Or me?" She shakes her head, expression of plain disbelief, "Oh you make quite the pair, don't you?"

"Agent Morse is no longer part of the equation," the other man responds, swallows and then nods at the computer before her as if that'll make her get back to their previous task.

Apparently he should've known it wouldn't be that easy.

"Wow, ok, remind me never to ask you to play doctor. Tales of your bedside manner have clearly been grossly exaggerated all these years," she scowls at the bearer of the news, but Clint can tell she's hurt by this; she doesn't make much attempt to hide it either, and it quickly morphs into anger: "What happened?"

"I'm not quite sure yet," the Suit admits, "I'll know more when I return to base and can order a full investigation if one isn't already being carried out as we speak. It seems her cover for Counter-Intelligence was blown. They took her out."

"Who's they?" Jack demands, and there's an undertone there that betrays what she can really do with all this technology that surrounds her. "Your lot? 'They do it?"

"It wasn't us," he returns quite calmly; as if this woman isn't a powder keg near-ready to explode on them. "She was undercover. It could have been any number of groups she was investigating. She was dead before we could get to her."

"I was late," Clint chooses to add; because it matters, and she should know.

"It happens," the Suit allows, sparing a glance in his direction.

He shoots him a look right back; it shouldn't happen. Not if you want to complete your objective; not if you want to live.

"So now we're playing  _Pass the Parcel_  with the leftover baby," is what she says to all that, and the way she now seems to be compartmentalizing is another sign that there is far more to this woman than meets the eye. "Great."

"Jack," the Suit chastises, and this time she does drop it, at least to pick up where they left off.

"Francis Morse. Bit of a mouthful, but ok. Let's just hope the kid doesn't have a lisp," she replies in a tone that belays the unspoken ' _aye-aye-Captain_ ' and gives the other a swift nod to go with it.

"Yeah, for now, but after that just Francis ok?" Clint shrugs off the other man's inquiring gaze and murmurs, "He should at least get to keep one thing from all of this."

"Don't worry boyo, I got this handled," Jack assures him, already moving between typing away rapidly and scribbling across documents, "Now you won't be on his birth certificate or anything like that, and for all intents and purposes we're gonna pass it off like he was abandoned – but if I'm going to be so kind as to pass along the family name to the little darling, I suppose I could swing the whole grandma-guardian thing."

Clint near balks at her, before he gets himself in check. This whole thing has been a cluster-fuck from start to finish, but really what did he think was going to happen?

"I know," Jack placates him and his obvious thought-process, standing and moving towards him, "But he's my first," she excuses herself then, hands crossed over her chest, pressed close to her heart; and Clint can see how this will play out under any public scrutiny, small-town gossip or prying eyes of watchdogs who cross their path, "And he's just so cute, and little – look at those itty bitty fingers and toes." She's bending down, cooing at the bundle still held securely in his arms, and then she straightens, rolls her shoulders and the nonchalance emanating from her now replaces any old-dear routine of a split-second ago, "We've got time."

It takes him a moment too long to realize she's standing watching him again, only this time she's holding out her arms, obviously expecting him to hand the kid over.

"You planning on relinquishing your hold on him anytime soon?" she asks, cracks him a smile with a smidge of sympathy.

"Let him be for now, Jack," the Suit instructs, and steps beyond them to the armchair by the window; leaving the one next to it with a clear view of the door and the surrounding entry points free for Clint. "He's only let go of him twice since he got him, and those were both struggles in themselves."

That elicits a gasp from her, and the scandalized expression: "You mean you let some random women -  _plural! -_ hold my baby before me?" One hand on her heart again, and Clint can see the faint tracings of a star shaped shrapnel wound teasing her fingertips. She looks between the two, continuing her act, "You two are sure making a good job of wounding me today."

His lips quirk up in a grin and he shifts his arms, shoulder nudging forward with the kid still attached, "If you're that desperate, I think he needs a change." He tilts his head, though he has more than an inkling she's not going to fall for his charms, "And you know what they say? Third time's a charm!"

That doesn't please her any.

"Sorry, that's still classed as daddy duty while you're here," she flat-out rejects his version of an offer to bond with the kid, although she does reward him with: "But nice try."

The Suit laughs from the other side of the room. "Oh go on, Jack, he sweet-talked the young cashier at the gas station into doing it on the way here, got her to fill a bag full of essentials and throw in a quick feeding lesson too. The other one practically jumped at the chance to lend a hand as soon as we stepped inside the store; apparently a baby was the most exciting thing she'd seen all day. If she'd had any, her other customers would've probably been of the same opinion, the amount of screaming that followed. Kid's got a killer pair of lungs on him. Though I can't imagine it'll be the most tasking role you've ever undertaken in your life."

"I'm insulted you consider me as easy as those others you conned. And if you're so sure, you do it. I'll have plenty of that to fill my future and I refuse to perpetuate the gender stereotype," she snubs the oh-so-tempting offer again. "Besides, if my hands are full of baby, who's going to ensure my having him's all legal and just in this here free and brave land?" She flashes them a grin before turning back to her computer screen. "Enjoy gents."

And that's how Clint ends up with a self-taught, crash course in feeding, changing and caring for the kid in other ways than simply being a human pillow for him to sleep on.

Enlightening is one way to put it.

The kid conks out again on his shoulder not long after Clint's made it through ensuring he's been cleaned, fed, watered and he's not about to choke on any of it after all that effort.

It's a comfortable weight he's grown quickly used to, and in the months that follow he finds not even the load of a sniper rifle or the draw of his bow can fill the void.

The kid's left an imprint, and he'd known the moment he left that he'd find his way back to him.

So much for giving the kid a normal life.

Then again, they'd left him with Jack.

That's an adventure in its own right.

.

He's six months old when he tries to save himself and someone else offers to do it for him. Maybe he's too young then to realize it, but soon he comes to understand: sometimes it's ok to accept the hand that's offered to you.

.

**TBC**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hope it wasn’t too confusing. Sections and characters should be easier to distinguish now that the characters have ‘officially’ been introduced.
> 
> It was supposed to be a one-shot. I just don’t know when to quit.  
> Can’t guarantee following chapters will be quite as lengthy, but it’s a distinct possibility since I don’t know when to shut up in print or in talkative real life. Lucky you lot.  
> Aim is to post one chap a day, again no guarantees.
> 
> Most importantly: thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed it :)  
> Drop me a wee line or whatever with your thoughts if you’re so inclined – any and all recognition of acknowledgement is greatly appreciated!


	2. Four Years

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've already fallen off the 'post one chap a day' wagon, but I might get back on track yet.
> 
> A/N: Flashbacks are in bold italic.  
> Anything in another language other than spoken English will generally be in italics.

.

He's four years old when he meets her and that's the start of something else entirely.

.

"Agent Romanoff," Coulson's voice causes her to pause, though she doesn't turn, "Might I advise against the action you are about to undertake."

She stays silent, because what does he know of it?

She'll be off-base, likely monitored, but that's to be expected. They might have granted her 'Agent' status, but apparently they won't blindly trust her when she's not within their immediate line of sight or target range. They're not complete idiots, she admits. Barton would've likely made a quip to the notion of  _what does that say about you?_  that she works for such idiots. Sometimes he reminds her of a child, albeit with a darker sense of humor. In any case, she's worked for more idiotic beings for less of a reason than he'd given her when he'd chosen not to kill her. Besides, he's not here. And that's sort of the point.

"This is your first opportunity off-base, without direct supervision," Coulson points out, as if she wasn't already aware. In other words, it is a test. "It would be prudent not to spend it hunting down someone who does not wish to be found."

She takes that to mean that Barton's whereabouts are not currently being monitored, and her seeking him out would not only draw unwanted attention to his position, but also to whatever it is that he and their handler seem so keen for her not to know about. They're keeping secrets from those that are employed to extract them, so of course this just makes her all the more curious to uncover what it is they're hiding.

"Are we not partners?" she enquires.

She turns to look at him, though she knows his eyes have not moved from her position.

"Barton and I?" she clarifies; as if there was any need. "Surely his presence would be enough to keep the guard dogs at bay while I'm out assimilating myself in the real world once more?" she poses it like a question, but it's a statement of certainty. She knows as well as he does, as they all do: the  _partners_  are on probation, and if Barton cannot keep her on a leash, he'll suffer the same fate they have in store for her. S.H.I.E.L.D will not hesitate to order a hit on their own agents; in that regard, they are no different from her previous stream of employers. There are, after all, always more assets willing to rise through the ranks and take their place.

"I'm sure you'll manage just fine on your own," is his level response, the unspoken  _you have all these years_  not far behind. "Although you'll find the meaning can usually be found in the term itself," he points out. " _Personal time_." His lips quirk up in one corner while his eyes remain a steady gaze on hers: it is another test, one of Coulson's own. Subtle approval wrapped in a warning. "It tends to indicate a desire to spend time  _away_ from others, partaking in activities of one's own choice."

She shrugs and sends a smile of practiced pleasantry back at him, mirroring the one he wears so well. "Hmm, my English is still a little rusty."

She wonders if he'll warn Barton of her arrival, or if he'll let them play this out on their own.

 _That_ would be telling.

.

He watches her, his newest asset, as she goes off in search of his other – equally as skilled and every bit as stubborn.

The decision of whether or not to warn them of her incoming weighs on him more heavily than he will admit.

Despite both the educational and entertainment value gained from watching his assassins duke it out, Phil's not sure if the backlash on this particular occasion would be worth it. Barton is unbelievably protective of their whereabouts and would not take kindly to any intrusion in their lives, especially one not of their own making. No matter what he thinks of Romanoff, his feelings for the boy are unparalleled.

There's also the matter of Jack.

.

_**His phone flashes to indicate an incoming call, but there's no Caller ID to give him early insight. That's not exactly unusual in his line of work, however, so he answers with a prompt, "Coulson."** _

" _ **Now before you go getting your knickers in a twist, I made sure the line's secure," comes the voice from the other end of the line.**_

_**In this case, even if there had been Caller ID it would likely have only led him on a wild goose chase. As is her way.** _

_**He immediately identifies the speaker and swallows the words he'd been set to utter in return, instead settling for the simple, but effective: "Proceed."** _

_**She waits a beat before informing him, "Something's come up."** _

_**If her contact alone hadn't already clued him into the gravity of the situation, her pitch rams the point home. He turns away, drops his speech to a lower tone and feels the words grate against the cage of his mouth before he releases them, "You've barely been in possession of the package for a month, what could have possibly 'come up' in such a timeframe?"** _

" _ **Been counting the days too have you?" she practically sing-songs, although it lacks her usual level of jest.**_

_**She sighs and he allows her the moment.** _

" _ **He's deaf, Phil."**_

_**He exhales. "I can see how that could complicate things."** _

" _ **Glad you agree," she returns, "You plan on doing anything about it?"**_

" _ **That depends," he says, still siphoning off options from one side of his brain to the other. "How accurate are your findings?"**_

" _ **Well put it this way: he seems quite content to just babble away in his own little language, which is fine, really, I'm more than happy to let him go at it all day, doesn't bother me if he doesn't want to get an early start mastering my mother tongue – but none of it would appear to be in response to what I'm saying, or anything that's going on around him." She huffs a laugh to break the tension. "He can see fine though, so I got beady little eyes following me like a hawk all times of the day and night. And don't even get me started on that fact he won't sit still for a minute, restless doesn't even cover it. Figured that one out early though – just needs some visual or motor stimulation, give him something to hold or stare at and I'm in the clear for a good five minutes or more."**_

_**He allows himself the moment to smile and lets his thoughts drift to another. "Mmm," he murmurs, "That sounds familiar."** _

" _ **You gonna tell him?" she prompts at that. He doesn't waste time thinking she's invented a mind-reading device along with everything else in her technological arsenal; his comment had been telling enough.**_

_**He's never really left 'Agent-mode' as it's been so cleverly dubbed, but there's a noticeable difference in the twang of his voice from prior, "My asset is currently undergoing a rigorous training program before full immersion into the organisation."** _

" _ **So that's a no then?" she surmises, and if she was standing before him he could see the roll of the eyes that is not at all hidden from her tone now, and so very telling of her oft-deadpan attitude.**_

" _ **It's an 'I'll tell him when I've secured his position within the company and I'm confident he's of sound mind and rational judgment before I pass that information along', but thank you for your input," he responds, and he's aware that it might contain an undertone that could be deemed somewhat snarky in nature, but he blames her for that. Besides, sometimes he thinks she responds best to her own kind.**_

_**She gives him a minute in return before she says, "I'll just deal with it, shall I?"** _

_**He allows the exhale to take with it any other reply he might've been tempted to send her way, and provides consent to the action even though he knows she doesn't actually need it. "I think that would be best."** _

.

His phone chirps with the sound of an incoming message: sender  _unknown._

It reads:  **I didn't realize your high-flyer was in the habit of leaving a trail for others to follow.**

Their 'code' is not the most advanced, nor would it be the most difficult to crack if someone were to attempt such an act. However, the measures Jack has in place, not to mention the lengths taken to secure his own privacy, would certainly be enough to render any attempts useless.

He types a quick response:  **Maybe she's feeling lonely without a partner.**

Jack's reply is swift and to the point:  **Maybe she shouldn't have killed all the others then.**

He shakes his head as he envisions her satisfied smile were she saying that to his face. Knowing her he wouldn't be surprised if she was. He'll have to do another sweep of his office later.

She follows her previous message up with another, and that's the last he hears from her.

**I suppose I'll just have to keep a closer eye on my birds for the foreseeable future, wouldn't want them to become anyone else's prey.**

It's somewhat debatable whether that actually makes his job easier or not.

.

_**Francis is still little more than a baby when they run for the first time, and indeed enveloped in Barton's arms Phil imagines he'll always look as such.** _

_**The tight scrutiny that follows 9/11 means it's not the best time to be hiding out in the good ol' US of A, especially if you are a hacker of sorts ("your words,** _ **Phil-** _ **istine" and though Jack deliberately butchers the term just so, it's debatable if she's actually referring to him or Barton). There's also the minor detail that she may or may not have entered the country through various illegal means, they don't talk about things like that. It's sort of like how they don't mention the fact she has access to the kinds of systems S.H.I.E.L.D runs on – sometimes it's just better that way.** _

" _ **Scandinavia?" Barton questions and looks from the eldest to the youngest in quick succession, letting his gaze linger on the little boy in his arms like this is his last goodbye. Not quite, but Phil supposes it's close enough.**_

" _ **Well," Jack says, like she's really going to let her finger drop on a map-point and just take it from there, "That general direction anyway. Maybe Germany – are they still clamoring for the Aryan race over there? He'd fit right in!"**_

_**He fits her with a look, because that's in bad taste even for her idea of worldview, as skewed as it is. She just carries on fiddling with the controls on the miniature hearing aids laid out on the desk before her, chancing looks up at them every so often.** _

" _ **Look at him," she continues on, "White blonde hair, bright blue eyes and a face like that? Scandinavian, German," she waves her hand around airily like the whole region in general will work with her plan, "They'll lap him up over there. And he barely speaks as it is, so he'll be fine."**_

" _ **And what about you?" he asks, because he knows Barton won't, but it's weighing on both their minds just the same.**_

" _ **What about me?" Jack returns, like this shouldn't be up for discussion, like this was all decided the moment they turned up on her doorstep and she didn't let them fry on the electrical fence on their way in. "This is all for him, remember?"**_

_**She stands and cranes her neck round to capture the infant's attention, an easy smile gracing her features and curing some of the symptoms of age and world-weariness as he spots her in his field of vision and beams and babbles in return.** _

" _Come here, Birdie_ _ **," she beckons him forth with hand movements, and the boy twists in the other's arms, leaning forward to her waiting embrace.**_

" _ **What did you call him?" Barton questions as he hands Francis over to her and she sets him on the tabletop, placing a soft-toy between his little fingers to keep him occupied. The cross of his arms would appear to be a move meant to counteract the loss than an obviously defensive tactic.**_

" _ **Should I be questioning if his hearing loss is hereditary?" is Jack's response to that, eyebrow raised and residual amusement curving the corners of her lips; because she couldn't just say 'you heard me,' and be done with it.**_

_**Barton tosses a look her way and his jaw clicks like he's swallowing a nasty retort full of imaginative curses so as to avoid making a bad impression on the kid. It's oddly endearing in a way. He's usually better at compartmentalizing though. They'll have to work on that.** _

_**She finishes refitting Francis's hearing aids and drops the miniature bottle of baby oil in the bag by the table leg, while the kid amuses himself with repeatedly pressing down on the chest of the stuffed doll in his grasp and watching as it lights up over-and-over again. His little eyes flash an even more potent blue with the reflection from the toy figure's chest-piece, and Phil finds he can't look away from the strangely alluring light. The moment's only broken when Jack hefts the kid back up into her arms and Phil's oddly glad for the interruption.** _

" _ **He gets into places he shouldn't, and climbs on all the furniture and when I try to get him to come down he makes this sound like '**_ _caw caw'_ _ **and gives me with the bird sign," Jack gives reason to Barton's earlier enquiry, and then rolls her eyes, "No, not**_ _that_ _ **bird sign, boyo, but nice try." She looks from the little boy by her side, resting his head on her shoulder, with his plucky pink lips pulled shut and his bright blue eyes trained solely on Barton. "I'm sure he learned it all from you."**_

_**As if to prove he can hear what they're saying about him, Francis nestles further into Jack like he's only too satisfied with her observation.** _

" _Birdie,_ _ **" Barton tests the name out, his fingers mimicking the sign he watched her use just prior.**_

_**That one word, that one small hand movement, has Francis's mouth curving, rising high on his cheeks and splitting his face with joy. And Phil knows: while it has much to do with the pet-name and the sign used to communicate it, it has even more to do with the man using them.** _

" _ **So congratulations on your legacy," Jack awards the other, knowing exactly what she's doing, "The world and I thank you for your contribution."**_

_**As much as Barton attempts for nonchalance, indifference even because he refuses to acknowledge his true relationship to this child, it falls flat. Much like his gruff demeanor (frown that stretches from his brow to his lips, arms still crossed over his chest only shifting with the stiff shouldered shrug) which fails him the moment that little boy smiles at him.** _

_**Francis sits up to further attention in Jack's arms, making a sign of his own in Barton's direction that is undeniably representative of '** _ _Archer_ _**'. By the third go, he's a little too enthusiastic and the plush action figure becomes like a projectile, its blue light blinking like an emergency response as it flies through the air to land easily in Barton's hand as if he'd been the target all along.** _

_**Phil watches as his asset stops fighting the instinct and lets the emotion the child instills in him come to the forefront with a brimming smile just for him.** _

_**And as much as Phil would like to share in the moment these two have created, he's torn. While this child will undoubtedly ensure that Barton is able to come back to himself, to remain human despite the actions he has and will continue to commit; personally crafting and maintaining such a separation from what is essentially a** part **of him will not be easy feat. That's why Phil's here though: to hold his hand through the good days and the bad – at least, that's how Jack would put it. He'd call it helping out a friend.** _

.

The way she later tells it is that she stumbled upon the pair out in the woods. Naturally neither he nor Barton fall for that. For one thing: Natasha Romanoff has never 'stumbled' at anything, not unless she's playing a mark. Not to mention he'd been the one to warn her off going looking for her  _partner_ in the first place.

The next part? Well, that Phil's more inclined to take as an accurate representation of events and how they unfolded. Given what he knows of the pair and the state they return to him in, it just seems more likely.

When she'd come across their presence it was to the sight of Francis holding a bow and aiming it at something in the distance under the elder's tutelage. She'd taken exception to the idea that Barton was training the boy up to lead their sort of life.

"So much for you being different,  _better_ , than those I left behind," she'd hissed at him in her native tongue.

So maybe Clint had let the kid graze her with an arrow on his behalf; apparently  _she_  should've known him better than that.

Phil's not sure whether to be proud or exasperated. He supposes the fact they came back at all can be classed as progress and figures they'll work on the rest.

.

He likes spending time with Archer. He takes his hearing aids out and doesn't feel like he's missing out on anything. Archer uses his hands to speak to him and he knows how to answer the same way; it's like their own little language. Except, loads of other people know it too. So they've learned to adapt certain signs, make them their own, adding their own flair. One time Jack said it looked like they were doing some weird version of the  _Hand Jive_ and Archer had told her only people of a certain age knew what the  _heck_ she was talking about. She made them watch  _Grease_ and Archer complained for  _days_ afterwards that he was never going to get those hours of his life back. Jack looked super pleased with herself, so it didn't matter that he fell asleep less than half way through and didn't really know what they were talking about.

He likes those times the best. The flurry of movement, trying to go faster than the other, but still keeping up with what they're saying: it's fun. He always ends up laughing, and Archer always smiles at him then. Frans likes when he does that –  _Francis_ likes when he does that.

His name's different over here than it was when they were in Sweden, but Jack mostly calls him  _Birdie_  and Archer calls him  _Kid,_  so he supposes it doesn't matter so much what other folks call him.

Still, when he'd asked her why Jack had grinned at him and said it was 'cos Americans weren't as smart as the rest of them. When he'd said this to Archer, the man had told Jack to stop insulting Francis's heritage. He's not sure what that means, so he stores it away to look up when he's older.

He's also not sure why it means he has to add another two letters to his name, but he listens to Jack and does as she tells him.

He also listens to Archer, so when the man tells Francis to stay put, he does so. For a little while, at least. Well, Arch didn't really force the gesture, so he figures he's not in any  _real_  danger. Besides, Archer wouldn't leave him if he was – and he's not really left him; he's just a little ways on up ahead.

"He's not a child soldier?" he hears a woman question, and she doesn't sound like she'd be happy with a yes  _or_ a no answer.

"Well if he was I'd be doing a pretty piss-poor job of training him, wouldn't I? Couldn't even get a kill shot in you before you bolted," Archer responds, and he does sound happy; but a strange kind of happy. Like Jack when she and Arch are in the same room, or Jack and Uncle Phil when they're together. He mostly sounds like Jack whenever she's with people other than Francis.

"Wouldn't be the first time you've been unable to release an arrow in my direction," the woman says, like she's taunting Archer with a time they shared together.

He watches Archer grin. "Oh, but I did release it this time," he says and he reaches out, flicks her cheek with the back of his fingers and comes away with blood drops across his knuckles, "Got you too. I thought your lot were supposed to bleed blue."

"The Royal Family were hemophiliacs, and they are not my descendants," the woman snips, and Francis can see her more clearly now. Her head is covered in dark red curls like the blood that stains the pale skin near her hairline.

Francis has a moment of guilt, because he did that. At least, he thinks he did. Archer ran off pretty quick after he released the arrow, so maybe the blood should be on his hands instead.

The elder shrugs. "Good thing too, or you'd be dead right now from that scratch, which would suck."

And that's when he chooses his moment: Jack's always said it's good to make an entrance. He thinks this is what she means. She'd be proud if she could see him now. She probably can: Jack likes being sneaky with the cameras around the property, says it's to keep an eye on him, but Francis isn't so sure. He's always good for Jack – well, mostly always.

He runs up to the pair as fast as his legs will carry him, which is pretty fast. "Hey, Archer!" he calls out; too loud, but not really caring.

The woman looks round as he skids to a stop just a little ways off from them to fiddle with his ear, quickly trying to slip the other aid back into place. He has tricky little fingers, but there's a reason even his ears have scars, sometimes his fingers move too quickly for everything else; he's not quite mastered how to slow them down yet, but he will.

She quirks a brow at the elder, repeating "Archer?" with an obvious question mark in her tone, which Francis doesn't understand. It's his  _name_. Duh.

" _Come here_ ," Archer beckons him forward, and bends down in front of him, " _Let me_." Larger hands reach up, brushing his hair away and slipping the small devices properly into place.

He smiles, a little rueful that he needed assistance, and mutters, "Tack."

Archer just nods back at him, his lips curving a little, but he doesn't look angry or anything so Francis reckons he's in the clear.

He looks up at the woman staring at them and says, "Who're you?"

He says it in English, which is why he figures Archer doesn't mention his little slip up before.

Archer grins, wide and true, and looks between the two before he tells him gleefully, "This is Nat, Kid."

"You're Nat?" he says, "Archer talks about you, but I thought you were a fly, like the ones in the Bible – the things that annoyed everyone. They were one of the plagues. They came to punish all the folks."

"A  _gnat_?" she says to that, eyebrows raised as she watches him.

"Yeah, I thought you were a gnat, Nat," and then he giggles at the mistake, "Oops."

Archer just shrugs as she looks across to him. "I can see how he'd think that," he comments, and he doesn't sound like he has a care in the world even though this Nat looks a little on the scary side, "Although I'm sure I mentioned you were of the female variety."

"Well at least he knew I was a  _female_  flying creature from the Old Testament," she mutters, and she gives Archer a look like the one he sometimes gives Jack when he's not best pleased with her and she just ends up laughing in his face.

Archer shrugs. "All in the little things, Gnat."

He says it like it's spelled, and Francis can tell he does it to deliberately annoying her.

"Don't." She shoots the other a warning look, but it's too late.

Francis catches on quick, as per, and pounces on the idea, "Hey, can I call you that?  _Gnat_? Can I? Please? It's so funny! Gnat!"

"No," she tells him swiftly.

He's not one to be put off so easily though, "You don't look like one, you're too pretty, and you don't have wings, which kinda sucks 'cos it'd be cool if you could fly, but it's funny, and it's  _you_. Gnat."

"Did you not hear me when I said not to call me that?" she replies, and she sort of sounds like Jack now when the elder's talking in a really low voice, all slow and no-nonsense and people just do as she says.

That should probably be enough to make him stop, but instead he scowls at her. "I heard you. I just didn't want to listen to what you had to say,  _Gnat_ ," and this time he bites the word out in spite.

"Hey, stop killing the mood," Archer directs at her with a warning look of his own. "You crashed our party, remember? You don't get to do that just to be a buzzkill."

Which is Francis's point exactly.  _She's_ not even supposed to be here, so Francis can call her what he likes.

"You too," Archer says to him with a nudge, "Knock it off. She's your guest now, so treat her properly."

He rolls his eyes, but he listens to Archer like he does Jack. "Fine."

Plus, she must be mostly ok if Archer likes her enough to want to keep her around. He grins: he can't wait to see what Jack does when she sees the two of them.

He turns to Natasha. "Want to come back to the house with us?"

She looks like she really has to think about it for a moment before lifting one shoulder, meeting Francis's eyes and saying, "Da."

He grins at her when he hears the Russian inflection; he'll have to remember to tell Jack these new aids are good for making out other foreign people too. "So you're an alien too, huh?" He looks to Archer then, "Oh Jackie's gonna love this!"

And then he turns and runs in the direction of the house.

"Jack!" he shouts, barreling through the front door.

He thinks he hears Archer groan somewhere in the distance; but he might just be imagining that. The aids aren't  _that_ good.

"Archer found a friend in the woods. And it's a girl!" he calls out to Jack, amused to heck with  _this_  turn of events, "And guess who it is, Jack? It's  _Gnat_!"

He definitely hears two groans then, and neither of them come from inside the house. He's still laughing when Jack emerges and goes to stand in the doorway to greet the two of them, although she surely knew they were coming before he told her. Jack knows everything that goes on around her.

.

They're fighting it out, sparring like they usually do, except this is slightly different from their training sessions in that she has a lot of pent up anger she's trying to take out on him. For his part he's too amused to be indignant at the fact she's annoyed at him for keeping secrets. Girl can dish it out, but apparently can't take it.

"Hey, where'd he go?" he asks Jack, pushing his sunglasses atop his head as they eventually walk back inside to a room that is now blatantly devoid of the kid's physical presence. "I thought you were just putting him in a bath and then he was coming back out?"

Jack jabs her thumb in the direction of the bed visible through the partially open doorway across the way. When she sees the pair of them still standing there, an expectant look on his face, she heaves a sigh, closes her book and stands up to lead them inside the kid's room.

She yanks back the covers although Clint suspects she'd known all along what they'd find: a pile of cushions lying there instead of a mini human.

"Hmm," she murmurs, like this is some big mystery as to where he could have gone, "Must be the added noise."

She shoots them both a look and then pulls the edge of the blanket up and peers under the bed frame.

" _You gonna come out of there any time soon, Birdie_?" He watches her sign the words as she says them, and though she's partially obscured from their view he knows Natasha is as keenly observant in such close quarters as he is. He thinks that should be cause alone to worry of the kid's wellbeing: that Jack would advertise the kid's hearing loss in front of Natasha when she's not vetted her fully. " _You got yourself some visitors here. Think they want to entertain you proper now_."

There's a muffled response that they take to be a negative.

" _Come on, those two big babies have stopped their squabbling, no more noise, come on out from under there_ ," Jack says.

"No," the small voice replies, "It's dark under here, and there wasn't any noise, until now."

Clint curses. "Shit, he's having a migraine?" He's dropped to his knees before waiting for an affirmative, ignoring the way one leg protests a little too readily at the movement, while Natasha stands back to watch.

It's testament to Jack's own feelings towards the kid, not to mention how she feels about Clint's relationship with him, that she just signs  _money_  to him and doesn't say anymore on his loose-lipped curse in the presence of the four-year-old.

"Come on out kid, Nat's stopped chewing my ear out, so it's like Jack says – no more fighting, ok? We'll just sit quiet, no more shouting or hitting, how does that sound?" He figures repeating the fact might make it that bit more believable. Maybe. " _Come on_ ," he coaxes, and he's signing now too in tandem with speaking the words because he's not sure how much visibility the kid really has under there. " _She's not as scary as she looks_."

"Yes, I am," comes the response to that; and she says it so matter-of-fact too, like it would never occur to her to say anything different, so why should it him?

He shoots her a look and then hisses in Russian, " _Really? That's how you choose to help_?"

" _It was helpful_ ," she returns in kind, " _He should know that there is a level of threat involved in dealing with_ _ **us**_ _._ "

He knows what she's trying to do here. She's aware that the kid means something to him, has accepted that he isn't training Francis up to be the next him or her or any version of a S.H.I.E.L.D operative in their midst. She's seen something of what he's like with the kid and this is her way of trying to twist him into being brutally honest with him like it's  _the right thing to do_. It's a laughable state of affairs coming from her and her questionable moral compass, but fitting if it's another way for her to teach him a lesson. Attachments in their line of work are dangerous; they'll get you killed or get them killed. All of this he knows.

However, there's honest and there's realistic, and realistically the kid is way too young to be hearing that kind of talk even if they have been preparing him to run from it since he was six months old.

" _He's four years old,_ " he replies, unimpressed, " _You tell him something like that he'll never come out from under the bed_."

She lifts one shoulder, while he straightens from his position, " _It's not the worst place to hide, although it is rather predictable_."

" _He likes it; it's dark and still and quiet, which is what he wants right now_." He defends the kid's actions, because they are smart and appropriate in the circumstances and she doesn't even know what she's talking about here.

" _Not like you then_ ," she mentions, makes him aware he's not the only one in this  _partnership_ that likes to keep an eye on the other. " _That's all you ever seem to want_."

" _And that's such a bad thing?_ " he poses. Dark and still and quiet usually means a better vantage point, distance and a clear shot; you don't need to be in the thick of it to cause irreparable damage. Dark and still and quiet usually means he's under cover, shielded in the shadows. That he's managed to block out the chatter, the background noise; that he's focused. That he can breathe.

She doesn't comment.

"Stop," is what they hear through their exchange, and it's warbled enough that it's clearly come from the kid.

"Just throwing it out there," Jack says from her own position, watching the pair from more than an arm's-length away, but near enough to the kid that she could grab him and bolt if she needed to, "But maybe he's hiding out under there because you two idiots keep flinging curses and sniping at each other in a language he barely knows and trying to understand what either of you are saying has finally fried his brain. So he's retreated under there with the hope that your voices won't carry and he'll get some peace."

"Shit," Clint curses again in English, while Natasha remains silent. Talk about bringing the fight to the kid's doorstep.

He bends down again, turns his face away so he's half-obscured by the shadows peeking out from under the bed and makes sure his hands are clear in front of him.

" _We've stopped now. Really_ ," he tells Francis, " _No more_."

"It hurts," is the response this time, clearer now.

He lays himself down fully on the floor now, arm outstretched under the bed, coaxing the kid out of his hiding place.

" _Come here, kid_ ," he says, is well versed enough with the phrase that he only needs one hand to do it.

There's a shuffling and then a small hand clasps in his before he tugs the body out. Francis whimpers at the sudden change in light and looks set to scuttle back under, when Clint tugs him out completely and pulls him tight against his chest. The kid has one arm flung over his eyes and the other trying to cover one of his ears while he curls up and presses his face into the material of Clint's top.

"You smell," he's told, and the words start a rumble in his chest as he tries not to laugh.

"I know," he agrees. "Nat and I were outside, remember?"

Francis nods against his shirt, and looks like he's trying not to breathe in too much, his nose wrinkling in irritation when he fails.

Clint smiles, enjoying how easily and quickly the kid can amuse him, even when he doesn't mean to. "I'll have a shower once I get you sorted, ok?"

"I'm not having a shower with you," the kid says, sounding put out, and not at all agreeable to that course of action, "I'm all clean after my bath. Jack said so."

He smiles at that, agrees, "I know. I'll wait to have one until after you're feeling better, so I'll try not to make you too messy."

"Tack," is the grateful reply, and Clint doesn't have time to say anything else on the matter before the four year old is burrowing himself into his chest with a pained moan.

"Here," he says quietly, and pulls his sunglasses from his head to gently place over the kid's eyes, "Wanna try these?" And then he reaches up to remove the small devices from the kid's ears, "And how about we take these off too, hmm?" The boy stills ever so slightly and he says calmly, "Just us here, kid, so no need for anymore noise ok? We'll sign if we want to talk, yeah?" He holds the hearing aids out to Jack who places them in their box and then rests them on the side table.

She runs her hand over the back of the kid's head and then turns and pads noiselessly out the room; and he smiles to himself as he thinks of what the kid would say about that if he were fully with it right now. Probably that Jack's got them all wrapped up in a  _trust bubble_  or some other shit like that, so they're all safe and good here now. Kid thinks the old woman's God's gift and obeys her every word; which in terms of keeping him safe and ensuring he'll actually listen to her when she says  _run_ is not exactly the worst thing in the world. It can be a pain in the ass on a day-to-day basis though; as even Saint Coulson will attest.

Clint signs the next part as he assures him, " _I'm here, kid. I got you. You're ok_."

Francis stays nestled in his arms as he rises and maneuvers them up onto the bed, lying down and using his free hand to tug a blanket over the pair of them.

After a short while, he watches the kid extract an arm from where it's tucked beneath him and lift one of the legs of the sunglasses up. He peeks open one eye to find Natasha sitting on the chair in the corner watching over them.

The kid opens his mouth, and as always he doesn't bother that he can't hear himself because he's home and the only people that are ever here are those that don't care about the volume. His tongue slips over the guttural tones in swipes that are as unnatural as the language to his tender years and he tells her in the staggered words of her native land, " _My Russian is not very good._ "

Natasha leans forward, elbows resting on her knees and jerks her head in the direction of Clint. Her lips quirk up at one of the corners, and he watches her hold the kid's gaze, plush red lips parting with the enunciation clear in the words of his (adopted) home-country, " _Sounds better than your archer's English_."

Francis smiles at that, and Clint sees that twinkle in his eye that he always gets whenever he recognizes Swedish around him before he lets the sunglasses drop back onto the baby bridge of his nose and nuzzles into Clint's chest. She leans back, crossing her arms and legs, satisfied; eyes staying fixed on their figures.

Eventually the kid falls asleep in Clint's arms, curled in a tight ball, dark glasses still shielding his face.

"Why is he like that?" she asks when the soft breath of slumber against his chest is the only other sound in the room, and the question would weigh as heavy in the light as the darkness surrounding them now.

"There's nothing's wrong with him," is his instant response, guilty and defensive and true all at once.

"I never said there was," comes her even return.

When he looks over at her he can see the evidence even if he didn't already know. She doesn't mean it negatively; she's genuinely interested, sympathetic even – if he is to believe such a thing possible of her. He looks down at Francis, curled up sleeping in his arms, and thinks if the kid can't soften the Widow, nothing can.

"He lost most of his hearing when he was six months old. The aids help – and with Jack's embellishments they probably help even more. The migraines, the sensitivity to light, it's like there's an overload on his senses sometimes," Clint divulges, "It happened – it's from before."

He doesn't explain, but her reputation at interrogation well precedes her so he doesn't imagine he has to. It's a cop-out, he knows, but he doesn't think he'll ever find the words to be able to say it's all his fault; everything the kid is going through.

So he sticks with what he can do: being there when it matters, and he makes sure that counts.

.

It's early evening and Francis is sitting on the front porch, wedged in between Natasha's side and a stack of cushions he's obviously shoved out of the way to be closer to her, completely ignoring her attempt at keeping some semblance of distance between them. Clint's lips curve at the sight; kid has a way of wheedling his way into your psyche, not that he's entirely complaining.

"I didn't know you kept Russian books around this place," he comments, watching the pair, "No wonder Nat agreed to stick around."

Jack arches a brow at him as if to ask if he is being serious right now and if so, she can't quite believe the stupidity of him. She sniffs. "We don't."

"Ah," he voices and turns back to look at the duo. Apparently his partner has taken it upon herself to translate the book into her native tongue. Well, this should be interesting.

"Where Phil finds you lot is beyond me, some archive room no one goes near anymore or the dregs of society, no doubt," Jack remarks, and there seems to be a fine line between her being derisive and mildly charmed by the notion; as there usually is with the elder. "I swear the strays he attracts get weirder and weirder with every passing year."

"Must be your welcoming nature," Clint returns with a wide grin.

She huffs and twists the thick strip of material in her hands, swatting him with it. "You're making me old before my time."

"Pretty sure you were pushing seventy when we met," is his reply to that.

It turns out the material is the kid's dressing gown and the ties wrap themselves around his arm with her quick snap of movement.

"Didn't know you were into the kinky stuff, Jack," he remarks, eyeing up the restraint and her hold on it.

"Did no one ever teach you not to question a woman's age?" She yanks on the straps and they leave a faint rope burn when they unravel from his wrist.

He lifts one shoulder, the barest attempt to act like the innocent, victimized party here. "Did I specify an exact birth date?"

She shakes her head at him, like she's disappointed with the world in general starting with him. "The men definitely had more charm in my day."

He laughs at that, because now she’s just playing with him. And given the kid pulled on his superhero top (“check out my cape as I fly past you, Arch!”) before rushing on by him to join Nat outside on the porch is an opening he can’t resist. Francis fiddles with the brim of the blue hood just at that moment, and it’s like he’s taunting Clint into saying something about it: the thing’s got an eye-mask sewn on the front underneath a star for flip’s sake.

"It was Captain America wasn't it?" he says, openly amused and quite happy to show it, "You and Coulson bonded over your love for the man, the myth, the legend."

"Fairly sure you're mixing up your Supers there," she comments at that, sparing him a sideways glance.

He shrugs, both shoulders this time. "So what? You lived through the era and he idolized it so you regaled him with stories and he indulged you with his playing cards and all his other mint-condition merchandise?" He's laughing again. "Oh this is just too good."

"Like I said," she states, deadpan as ever, "They had more charm."

"Must like me some, Jack," he grins at her, not one to be put off and half teasing, half true, "You put up with the kid."

"He knows how to treat a woman," she dismisses.

"Rude," he'd act offended, but this is all part of how they do, "I know how to treat a woman. Ask Nat."

She lifts an eyebrow at that suggestion. "I'm not asking that woman anything, you can keep that crazy. I'm going to have enough trouble dealing with the aftermath."

"She's not that bad," he says to that and looks to her with wide eyes that beseech her to take his word for it for once.

Her response to that is to turn and leave the room. Of course that could have something to do with the fact that when he next looks over at the pair, Natasha has what looks like a Bible sitting in her lap as Francis points to the pages with his usual unrestrained enthusiasm. He's never taken her as a believer, but given present company he supposes it's possible she's making an exception. When in Rome, and all that.

.

Jack is with Francis in his room, having bathed him and put him to bed and now readying him for evening prayers. Clint supposes he should have some opinion about her indoctrinating the kid into her faith and maybe he does, but what did he really expect when he rocked up on her doorstep all those years ago and left the kid in the arms of a Irish kook who conversed with Jesus on a daily basis? Besides, he's always figured it wasn't his place, and believing in something is better than nothing and who is he to begrudge the kid that? He passes by the door on his way back to Natasha in the sitting room, when he stops at the sight, the sounds.

"Hey, Jack," the kid says, "Can I show you something?"

She nods and he smiles, obviously pleased; his face lights up under the glow of the bedside lamp.

"Watch this – or listen – or… do both? Do one of them anyway, you'll like this, just watch, listen – "

"Alright, out with it," she prompts. She accompanies it with a tap on the bed to spur him on, but her tone is indulgent as it often is with him. Clint wouldn't put it past her to have slapped the kid's leg through the bedding to get him to act like he was readying his horse and all his men to go ride off into battle the way Francis's face splits in a grin again. Sometimes Clint thinks she must enjoy the kid's games as much as he does to go all day every day with it.

So the kid begins, " _Pater noster qui es in coelis…_ "

He hears her intake of breath, watches as she takes in the Latin, her eyes trained on his little hands as they sign the accompaniment and she joins him in reciting the Lord's Prayer.

"Did you like it?" he asks when they've finished, "Nat taught me it earlier, she says I have an ear for languages." He tugs one of his hearing aids out with the joke, "Get it? An  _ear_  for languages!"

She opens his charger case and takes the device from him as he dissolves in a fit of laughter. "You'll have a thick ear in a minute if you don't settle down," she tells him, but there's mirth in her tone and a crinkling around her eyes.

He does as he's told, pulling out the other aid and holding it out to her. She places it alongside the other before closing the lid and putting the small box on his nightstand for easy access when he wants them.

He lies back and tugs the covers up to his chest and Jack leans over, smoothing away his fringe from his eyes, looking directly at him as her hands form the shapes to go with her words, " _Thank you, Birdie_."

The kid's still smiling when she turns off the light and closes the door.

"Tell your girl thanks," she says to Clint as he stands there waiting out the nightly ritual.

"You can tell her yourself," he replies, and he can't resist smirking at her.

She  _hmphs_ , but makes her way down the hall to the room Natasha's in anyway. He grins: progress. He wonders what Coulson'll make of it all; he can't wait to point out it was mostly all his doing that led to this happy ending.

There's a portrait of Jesus on the wall watching over him as he watches the two females in the other room. He nods to the long-haired gent, like they're in this together, and then feels the weight of two potent stares on him and makes a clumsy sign of the cross instead.

Jack looks like she'd burst out laughing if she wasn't so satisfied with the result; like this has been her ploy all along, to lure them to her shack in the middle of nowhere and convert them all and then send them out across the globe to do her bidding. Natasha's lips curl up slightly at the corners, like she's equal parts amused by his actions and pleased with the outcome of her own.

When in Rome indeed.

He feels like he's just been played, on all fronts.

Fuck. They'll be the death of him this lot.

.

When the pair return together, Phil doesn't say a word. Barton has bruises, some hidden, some not-so, and a limp that's only pronounced when he's reached his own quarters. Romanoff has a thin slice that runs from the top of her cheek through her hairline to split cleanly through the tip of her ear, as well as a shiner that looks like it's coloring spectacularly under her cover-up. Apparently they hashed out their differences in their most favorable way.

"So much for 'personal time', boss," Clint grunts at him as he goes by.

He looks to Natasha.

She shrugs, looking unperturbed, "So maybe the meaning got a little lost in translation."

.

He's four years old when he learns you don't have to be from a place to have a life there; and sometimes just knowing someone is as good as belonging to them.

.

**TBC**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, it means alot.  
> Steph


	3. Six Years

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: flashbacks are in bold italics  
> Anything in another language other than spoken English will generally be in italics.
> 
> Oh, and WARNING: think there's a swear word or two in this one. (If memory serves the last chap was exceedingly tame, while the first was peppered with them here and there.)

.

He's six years old when he discovers the risk with positioning yourself anywhere is the distance in the fall. They show him he can survive the drop and teach him how to pick himself up and climb back up the ladder.

.

Tasha gets him a plane. That's exactly how Clint phrases it in front of the kid too, because Nat had used the word ' _acquired_  ' and there was no way in Hell he was opening that can of worms. Either way, it's his to keep.

He takes the kid up in it, Tasha too, except his co-pilot isn't quite as fascinated by the outside world as the sprog running round in the back. Kid's all excitable over what he can see from the plane as it hovers over the clouds; the view from above so very different from life in it.

"I love going on planes, you know?" Francis announces; as if that wasn't obvious.

Clint looks over his shoulder and indulges him anyway. "I know."

Cocky little thing that he can be, he'd asked Jack if she'd throw him a party for his last birthday and because there never seems to be much difficulty persuading either of them to do as the other asks, she'd readily agreed. And since the woman can never be said to do things halfway, when Francis had requested a party to the theme of "airplanes, clouds in the sky, pilots, little teensy tiny houses and people below – the works", she'd given it to him in spades. And he and Nat were there to witness the whole thing. So yes, he knows the kid loves planes.

.

_**It's true when he turns up on their doorstep with Nat in tow, he expects some sort of enthusiasm at their appearance – at least on the kid's part, Jack always likes to play the 'I'm severely put out by your presence' card. What he's not quite expecting is for the kid to go absolutely off-his-nut-crazy with excitement at the sight of them.** _

_**Apparently it's his birthday the week coming (Jack still claims it's as accurate a date as if she was standing in the delivery room herself, but Clint thinks she's full of shit and she just picked a date that seemed roughly in line with the age of the kid when she got him).** _

_**So naturally the kid assumes they're here to celebrate with him, and because they'd shed about three layers off themselves and their other life before they arrived, including their super secret S.H.I.E.L.D Agent statuses and alter-ego personas, neither of them is prepared to bear the brunt of Francis's disappointment.** _

_**He's pretty sure half the reason Jack agrees to the kid's sudden wide-eyed request of, "Can I have a party, Jack? Please? Please? Please? Can I have one? With Archer and Gnat and you and me and can I? Can I?" is because she wants to see the two of them squirm at the thought of spending any prolonged length of time trapped in a room with multiple screaming pint-sized beings.** _

_**That's pretty much exactly what happens too; but while Nat suggests they try and**_ _fit in_ _ **to avoid standing out, he's more of the opinion that they can fit in with the shadows in the rafters or avoid standing out by positioning themselves in the back room**_ _away_ _ **from the**_   _ **copious number of sugar-hyped ankle-biters.**_

_**They compromise by setting up in the kitchen, adjacent to the large hall currently housing the little maniacs. Jack's good enough to leave them some cupcakes to munch on while they "hide out like big ninnies" (her words) and wouldn't you know it the woman can bake about as well as she can do everything else; that is to say extremely well. Because you know being able to make delicious, sugar-filled treats for a bunch of six year olds and their over-bearing parents is totally on par with hacking into a government agency, or tapping into a convoluted relay system, or the million other things Jack seems fully able and knowledgeable about. Like hiding a kid in plain sight for years. Even Tasha indulges in more than one piece of cake, and isn't that something.** _

_**They're pretty confident that since the food's already on the tables and there are numerous strategically placed trash cans they'll be fine where they are, undisturbed by the masses for the majority of the event. Apparently they seriously underestimated the needs of these parents to try be everywhere all at once, just in case their child might venture somewhere at some point or other.** _

_**Clint ends up caving first, although Nat's not too far behind.** _

**_He takes the back stairs two at a time and comes out on the landing directly above one end of the hall. He maneuvers past the thick rope that hangs from the tower and drops down by the stone carved railing, pushing his feet through the openings between the balusters like arrows slipping through the specially-designed cracks in the old castle walls he sees in those history books in the kid’s room. (Because it’s not as if he has first hand knowledge of such an act and puts them to use himself when the opportunity presents itself and he just so happens to be in the mood to mix business with_ ** _culture. **Nah,** Archer **wouldn’t know anything about that sort of thing.)**_

 **_The kid is on his third outfit change of the day – yes, third. And ok, so he was a little badass looking thing in the flight suit, with his hair all spiked up_ ** _just-so **and rocking the gold-framed aviators Clint and Natasha got him (not to mention the helmet tucked under his arm that looked a little more real than replica, and came dangerously close to cracking a few skulls at times). And yeah maybe he looked like the slickest dude in town in the airline pilot costume, shoes shined and polished like he’d been schooled by his** Uncle Phil. **And sure, he looks ace as fuck in his old-school get up complete with beat-up leather bomber, the matching hat that has his bangs constantly falling in his eyes, scarf tied round his neck and goggles perched on top his head. But still, three wardrobe changes is ridiculous, even for this kid.**_

_**There's a stack of pamphlets within arms reach of where he's sitting so he grabs them and starts folding. The first projectile swoops and swirls and hits the guy on the far side of the room square in the back of his head. The guy rubs at the sore spot with one hand and picks up the culprit with his other, spinning on the spot as he tries and fails to pinpoint where it could've come from. Clint can see the pain etched into the lines around the guy's eyes and he smiles. Good, he hopes it hurts; guy's a dick.** _

_**He hears a snicker from below and looks down to see the kid watching him; he winks at him and sends another paper airplane flying. He's somewhat disappointed that none of these so called 'hyper-vigilant' individuals seem to have noticed where all the impromptu airborne aircraft are coming from, but given Jack's got a wind machine on the go and the place is covered with fluffy makeshift cloud pillows and hundreds of planes suspended from the ceiling he** _ _supposes_ _**he can give them a pass. It's not like they've actually been taught to always be aware of their surroundings like a trio of adults in their midst and a certain six year old.** _

_**Maybe in another life he'd say those folks are the lucky ones, but as it is he thinks they all need to open their eyes a bit more to the world around them. Anyone could be pointing an arrow at them at any moment – or a paper airplane.** _

.

"Look at that view!" the kid enthuses, beaming, face pressed close to the glass.

He'd forgone the offer of the jump seat, instead opting for the back of the plane. It's only too apparent why as he leaps from one side to the other, hopping across the seats without a care, trying to get his fill of the scenery that surrounds them at this height.

"Man, even the clouds look cool from up here!" Francis flops back against his seat, content. Then he suddenly freezes, full body rigid, and implores of them, "Don't tell Jack I said that – she'll have me relearning the weather system like cumulus and stratus are going out of fashion."

Clint throws him a smirk over his shoulder, but neither agrees nor disagrees with his terms.

He looks over at Nat and finds her lips quirking at the kid's antics.

The kid lets out a sigh, settling back into the cushions. His head nestles well below the designated headrest, shaggy blond mane rumpling even further against the upholstery as he says, "Man, I could die happy up here."

Beside Clint, Natasha drops the smile.

"Stop talking," she immediately instructs.

Her tone is no-nonsense and the problem here is he can see both sides now, and he can understand it; but that doesn't mean he likes it.

"What she means is," he cuts in quickly, aiming for hasty damage control even though he knows he's already too late, "Don't say things like that, kid. You shouldn't – " He sighs, but finishes up anyway, "You're not going anywhere anytime soon, so don't – don't ever think that, ok?"

It's not that they're walking on eggshells with the kid; it's just that since their first meeting Nat's never been anything close to the Widow around him. He knows the kid's not exactly aware of his partner's in-field persona, but just because Francis can't put a name to the character, doesn't mean he can't feel the sting of the action.

Clint can tell the kid is confused though, because when he's confused and upset he gets this vicious, little vindictive streak about him. He doesn't get away with it in Jack's presence, but Jack's not here right now.

"I've seen this plane before, Arch," Francis says, and for someone so young he can fairly weight his words when he wants to, "In the picture Jack keeps. So it's not yours at all and you should give it back."

When Clint chances another look round at the kid, he's sitting boring holes into the backs of their chairs. He's yanked his hearing aids out, and they're currently being crushed in the tiny fists he's clenching in his lap.

"You're big liars!" is the accusation, and it's more of a shout because of the lack of feedback from his own voice than a necessity to be heard. "I want Jack! Take me back to Jack!"

They're much worse than that, but Clint doesn't say anything to that effect because wouldn't that cause a reaction.

Instead he turns back to the empty sky before them and stares straight into the approaching clouds.

Natasha's hands are on the controls, and she's trying so determinedly not to clench her knuckles into white bone around the instruments. Though she doesn't show it on her face, he can tell the kid's words have punctured her insides.

"Fuck," he mutters, and then repeats it over and over as he turns the plane around and heads back where they came from.

.

_**He turns at the approaching footsteps, expecting Natasha but meeting another figure in black instead.** _

" _ **If you were a few decades younger, I'd swear I was looking at the twin of that boy down there," comes the conversational starter as the man takes up place next to him, leaning forward along the edge of the balcony.**_

" _ **A few decades?" he repeats, looking up and shaking his head, clucking his tongue, "You wound me, Father, two and a half at most."**_

_**There's soft laughter at that, and then comes the line, "He seems to share your affinity for high places at least."** _

" _ **Yeah," Clint agrees; thinks there are worse traits Francis could pick up from him, "Kid loves his planes."**_

" _ **As I imagine my congregation could attest if he wasn't kept on a tight leash during Sunday Mass," the elder remarks, with fondness in his voice.**_

_**He looks up and the Priest is smiling at him. He follows the elder's gaze to the dwindling pile of what he now recognises to be a jumble of bulletins for the order of service, all with mismatched dates and topped with his latest creation. Kid's probably been snagging a few to add to his stash of ammo for months. Smart.** _

" _ **Resourceful that one," Clint remarks, and dips his head in the general direction of the kid.**_

" _ **The door to the back stairs is usually locked when he slips up here too," is the elder's response to that.**_

_**He sends the Priest a vaguely rueful smile. "Really? I'm sure it was open before I came up."** _

" _ **Tricky little fingers," the man comments, "Seems to be a common occurrence around here."**_

_**He tuts the elder, educating him on their preferred school of thought, "Only if you're caught, right Father?"** _

_**It's probably not something he should say to a man of the cloth, but he's been getting a vibe from the elder so he decides to just go with it.** _

_**It pays off.** _

_**There's a rumble of laughter from the space next to him and he lets his smile show his triumph. "I suppose that's one way of looking at it," the Priest concedes; the affection in his tone becoming even more noticeable. "And sneaking into the chapel to attend another Mass is considerably more favourable than ducking out the side exit in the middle, I'll give him that. His methods can be a little questionable at times, but his heart's in the right place."** _

" _ **He's a good kid really," Clint says, his eyes already seeking out the boy in the crowd below. He breathes out a laugh and runs a hand over his face as he watches Francis dodge in between all the other bodies, repeatedly tearing the number card from the back of one seat and replacing it with another, utterly confusing all those trying to take part in Jack's 'flight-academy' version of**_ _Musical Chairs._ _ **He catches sight of Jack watching his every move, and sees her shake her head at the six year old with half-hearted exasperation. He can be such a little shit at times, but he really does keep them on their toes; there's never a dull moment when the kid's around that's for sure.**_

" _ **It's not difficult to see where he gets it from," the elder awards him, and when Clint's head snaps up at that the Priest is smiling down at him. "** ** **When you've been in this job as long as I have you get to recognize those individuals trying to repent for past sins,**** **" the man says, not unkindly, and gestures to the open space below as he offers a word of praise for the job well done, "Keep going, son, the payoff's already proving to be worth it."**_

_**Clint follows the man's gaze and watches as Jack swallows Francis up in her arms, squirming and excitable with a fistful of crumpled place-cards that he tries to bury in the elder's thick white curls. She laughs right along with the boy in her embrace and the kid looks as happy as he ever does.**_

_**Yeah, so maybe they're doing something right in the world.** _

.

"Kid said he'd seen the plane before – in some photos of yours," he broaches the subject the minute he manages to corner her when they get back. Francis stomps off outside and Nat retreats to the back room, and when no one bothers to answer Jack's question of, " _what eating you lot?_ " and then her more direct one to him of, " _you didn't crash the thing already, did you?_ " she throws her hands up in the air, rolls her eyes at the lot of them and returns to her previous task. They'll tell her soon enough and she'll deal with it when they do.

"Mhmm," Jack murmurs, but doesn't raise her head or stop fiddling with the electronics in front of her; the only indication she gives him that she's listening, almost a cue for him to carry on if he must.

"Didn't think you kept any personal effects here," he remarks, and it's almost offhanded, but an accurate observation all the same.

She does physically respond to that. She arches a brow at him and gestures to the space that surrounds them, covered in trinkets and material items.

"Personal effects of any real meaning," he rephrases; because sure she has a lot of  _stuff_ in every place they set up house, but as far as he can tell it's all fairly generic, like she could (and does) up sticks and leave it all behind without so much as a backward glance or second thought.

"Plane's not mine," she tells him, slaps the circuit board down on the table and spins round in the chair to face him, clasps her hands together in her lap. "Never was."

"Just yours to give away?" he asks, watching, waiting for her to reveal something; considers it a sign in itself that she seems so adamant to cover her tells.

"Just mine to give away," she repeats with a nod, and then smiles, "I imagine the stories you had in your head of how your girl acquired it for you were a tad more action-packed than me simply handing over coordinates for the lock-up and telling her to have at it, if she wants it, it's yours."

"Who did it used to belong to?" he questions, skipping over her amateur attempt at turning the conversation to him and Nat.

And for a moment he doesn't think she's going to answer, and then she opens her glasses case, the one that's seemed like an extra appendage to her person since he met her. She pulls out a small, well worn photograph and holds it out to him.

There's a man and a woman standing in front of the very plane he now owns. She's pressed close to his side, half splayed over his chest, with his arms around her as they lean against the exterior of the cockpit. They look happy, and completely wrapped up in one another.

Jack smiles at him again, taps the corner of the image and introduces him to: "My husband."

.

" _ **Unburdening your soul?" Natasha inquires, and he lifts his head to watch her slink along the short corridor to join him. She crosses her legs at the ankles and bends at the waist, leaning her elbows on the stone railing to look over at the sight that's captured his attention, sparing him a glance with the words, "You realise how terribly cliché that is, right?"**_

" _ **You know you're the only confessional I need, Tasha," he replies to that, turning to face her and smirking up at her.**_

_**She rolls her head to the side so he can watch her roll her eyes at him, and then she goes back to observing the party below. Her lips quirk up every so often with the soft smile she reserves for the kid, and it's sort of endearing to watch.** _

" _ **Hey, Tash?" he says after a short while.**_

_**She twists her head to look at him, and then mimics his tone, "Yes, Clint?"** _

_**The munchkins below have moved on to what looks like it's supposed to be 'Airplane Tag'. It mostly consists of the boys throwing themselves around, slamming into the walls and tossing their bodies on the floor to dodge out of each other's way, while the girls either squeal at the intrusion into their personal space or wordlessly pirouette out of the advancing body's way. He wonders if the blatant gender stereotypes bother Natasha or she just resolves to ensure the kid is aware this isn't always the case. Between her and Jack, Clint reckons they've got a strong case in their favour.** _

" _ **You ever wonder if we can actually make up for what we've done?" he asks, and he knows the topic would seem out of place to outsiders, when children's laughter is literally echoing all around them, but it's no good a Priest giving him his blessing if he's not got Nat on his side. "All the shit we've put people through with the lying and stealing. Cheating them an' hurting them an' killing them," he says, "You ever think we can wipe the slate clean, free our souls of it all and start fresh?"**_

_**She holds his gaze, and he knows she'll answer him as best she can; she won't play with him, not on this.** _

" _ **I think what we've done will always be a part of us and we can't change that, not when it's shaped us into what – who – we are now," she tells him, and then offers him something attainable to go with it, "But that doesn't mean we should stop trying to make a difference; to balance the scales, so to speak."**_

" _ **So there's hope for us yet?" he surmises, quirking his lips up at her.**_

_**She puffs out a laugh. "Surviving this would be a good start."** _

" _ **Pfft," he fobs off her apparent concern, recognising it for the sham that it is, and solving their non-existent dilemma with a completely plausible escape route. "Worst comes to worst we take them all out and reset the clock."**_

_**She seems to consider this, lips pursing and hesitating like she's never prone to doing in the field, and then proposes, "We could maybe spare one or two of them."** _

" _ **Really? Survivors?" He lifts a brow and goes for complete surprise, because this is unlike her. Dare he even think it? This place has changed her.**_

" _ **Well," she quirks her lips, jerks her head in the direction of the only pair they're really concerned with, "I think we can make an exception for them, since they've made one for us."**_

" _ **Repaying a debt, Natasha?" He shakes his head, and allows his smile to show, fully-formed and facing her. "How very unlike you."**_

_**She shoves him, hard. "Shut up or I'll toss you over this balcony."** _

" _ **You wouldn't," he calls her bluff, still grinning at her only now it's got that cocky edge she tends to bring out in him more than most, "I'd kill one of the halflings down there. Think of the children, Natasha! The children!"**_

_**She shakes her head at his out-and-out dramatics, his impassioned speech accompanied by a hand clutched to his chest and wide, pleading eyes.** _

" _ **Silly American," she chides and then pushes him forward so he smacks his head off the join between the nearest baluster and the handrail, "We already agreed we were only sparing two of them."**_

_**When he pulls back it's to see her walking away, and when she looks over her shoulder at him with an all-too-pleased look as he rubs at the sore spot by his hairline, he can't help but shake his head and breathe out a laugh.** _

_**She's really something that one.** _

.

Natasha is watching him through the window at the back of the property. He's still upset by the events of earlier and it shows in his frustration at performing what should be rather simple tasks, given those employed as his tutors and the hours of work put into perfecting such routines. He's managed to secure the thick piece of rope up and over a high branch, round the wide trunk of the tree for added support and then into the nearby ground (after much fiddling with the knots and repeated stomping on the metal peg to hold it all in place).

When he hoists the giant contraption up into the air and it stays suspended in its place, he checks the rope is fed through the various eyelets on the front and back, and then gives each section a sharp, swift tug to test the tension before releasing it. Satisfied, he steps back to admire his hard work.

A feeling somewhat similar to that displayed on the kid's face rises up inside her, and that's when she chooses to take her leave and turns to walk into the adjoining bathroom.

She's not exactly sure  _why_ she never considers it to be a functional  _plaything_  as opposed to something to dress the back yard that they could admire and watch sway back and forth in the breeze like wind-chimes. It's a gift courtesy of Phil Coulson, of course it has a practical purpose.

That's her first mistake – maybe her second as well. It's not just that she takes her eyes off the target; it's that she overestimated his capabilities. And now he's suffering for something she did.

She's the closest to his position, so she has a front row seat to the before, during and after. Not for the first time she wishes she didn't have such a knack for being in the  _right place at the right time_.

She's walking back into the bedroom when it happens. She looks up and through the glass pane just in time to see him soaring through the air on that wooden airplane swing.

That's all well and good. The ropes hold, the knots twisted and taut, the framework is sturdy, strong enough to bear his weight, and he's enjoying himself; brimming smile on his face, wind near sweeping the cap off his head as it whips across his face.

Until it isn't. She's not sure if it's his own momentum that has him tipping forward, or the sudden slack of rope, or possibly a fastening coming loose somewhere along the factory line. What she does know is that she watches, frozen to the spot, as Francis pitches forward, the carved wooden sculpture following after like its one of his limbs flying through the air. He tries to stick his landing, but the weight of solid timber knocks him off his feet and he ends up tumbling to the ground in a messy heap.

She's moving before he is, and she's not sure if that should frighten her, but it does spur her on.

She calls out to Clint and Jack as she rushes out the back door and tears across the yard towards him.

He's just managing to pull himself up into a sitting position as she reaches him and she drops to the ground in front of him, rattling off questions.

He's feebly trying to bat her hands away, letting out little whimpering sounds in between and she's ashamed to admit it takes her that long to realize he doesn't have his aids in.

It's only when he manages to grab hold of one of her hands as she tries to feel for injured areas and hold tight to it that she stops and takes notice of what he's trying to say to her.

" _Sorry, sorry,_ " he rushes out with, his fingers releasing hers to beat against his chest, circling his heart, " _Don't wanna die in the air, Gnat. Don't wanna, you're right – m'sorry!_ "

He near shouts the last part; torn between pain and guilt and a desperation to be heard. She immediately reaches up and pushes the cap, already askew with the rush of air and the fall, up and off his head. Smoothing his bangs away from his eyes, she lets her palm rest there on his cheek for a moment.

And then she signs to him, " _It's ok, kid, breathe, I'm here,_ " and watches him calm before her eyes.

By the time Clint and Jack reach them, she's ascertained that his arm is the cause of most his discomfort and his head hurts –  _sort of_.

Jack apparently worked in the medical trade in her past life; because she takes one look at the kid and tells him he's broken his arm and oh look now they're going to have to go to the clinic to set it, because she's not being stuck with a kid with a gimp arm for the rest of her life. Yes, really. And if he's broken his head too, they can keep him there.

It's a wonder anyone falls for her nice little old lady routine, although Natasha can appreciate the art of deception and a well-maintained cover.

Clint wraps the kid in his jacket and scoops him up in his arms, while Jack goes inside to get something to make a splint and sling out of, and Natasha is left with the job of picking up the discarded sneakers, stuck in the mud, and reluctant to leave. They're not the only ones.

" _Jack's gonna be mad_ ," Francis fumbles to sign one-handed. He's usually a whiz at it, but the position and pain are hindering him significantly. He nods at the shoes Natasha has pinched between her thumb and forefingers: they used to be orange, now they're as dark as the shoelaces still tied together in big loops, holding in a mud mold rather than child-size feet. They go with his cap, which is now stained with blood from the gash in his hairline. And while his dark jeans haven't suffered from the color of the terrain or a split to his insides, there's a tear across his knee that will never recover. Oh, and the T-shirt that used to be white is now marked with red, brown and green like the kid took some of his markers and just went at it, and his denim shirt is torn at the site of impact from his elbow all the way down to the cuff that's turned up along his mid-forearm. Kid takes after Jack and someone else Natasha happens to know: he doesn't do anything half-way.

" _I think she'll live_ ," Natasha dryly responds, signs the words too even though this is usually a practice she's not involved in; especially when it's just the two of them together. " _She's a fan of shopping in any format_."

" _Yeah, but I wrecked Uncle Phil's present_ ," he grumbles, stumbling over the appropriate hand movements; because signing is harder than he likely could've anticipated with one arm pressed close to his side and the other trying to keep it steady while swathed in Clint's strong hold.

" _That'll teach you to attempt construction work and aero-transport before you've mastered your physics and engineering lessons_ ," Jack appears before them to comment, and holds up her other hand to show off the books she's carrying, their colorful spines deliberately positioned to face him so he can read their titles, " _But don't worry, I plan to bring your books so you can learn along the way and we can knock something into your head today other than dirt and wooden plane parts_."

The kid tries to burrow into Clint's chest with those words, to the sound of combined laughter.

" _I told you she'd be mad,_ " Francis says in what should really be too loud to be constituted a mumble, but it's muffled enough against the cotton of Clint's shirt it comes out that way. And the way his little fingers emerge to half-heartedly form the accompaniment only adds to his sad little act.

" _Nice try_." Jack's not falling for it for a minute, and it's a testament to how they work that Francis sits up in Clint's arms with her single gesture to do so, and lets her swiftly wrap his arm, sending her a small smile that's immediately returned and a meek  _"Thanks Jackie"_  when she's done.

" _What do you say we go get that broken wing of yours put back together, eh Birdie?_ " she says to his enthusiastic, if a little tired nod of the head.

" _Come on, kid_ ," Clint announces, although they're already all moving out, " _We'll get you patched up and have you back on your feet in no time._ "

.

Jack makes them drive three towns over and across the next door state before seeking out the first medical clinic available. She suggests he play  _I spy_  and tells him she wants to hear him saying the words as well as signing them. By the time they get there Archer and Gnat are looking at Jack sorta like how Homer looks at Bart right before he throttles him. It's funny to see, but no one actually tries to strangle anyone – at least, not while he's around. What they do when he's not around is a whole 'nother matter entirely.

She's got his aids, and he doesn't ask to put them back in. His head's still sort of hurting and anyway she says he'll need them out when he gets it checked by the machine. It doesn't matter so much, since Jack'll probably do most of the talking, but she lets him pick where he wants to be from. He chooses  _Swedes on vacation_  and slips into his mother tongue like he's never stopped. Even if he can't hear himself saying the words, he can see Jack smiling when he does it and there's nothing really like it.

Gnat and Archer both send short, sharp looks her way, as if it means something and maybe they shouldn't do it; but Jack sends them a look of her own and neither says a word against it.

Francis smiles; Jack's a peach when she's being a bossy madam.

.

They're waiting out in the car, because they all agree that three people accompanying a kid into an emergency room when none of them will be ticking the box of 'parent' might arise suspicion and direct unnecessary attention their way. Although they could just lie; which is what she imagines Jack is doing right now. Admittedly, the assumed foreigners on vacation cover the two adopted before they'd even stepped out of the car and into the building is fairly convincing; but that could be because it's mostly based on truth.

"He's very breakable," she comments, garnering her partner's immediate attention.

Clint's been staring at the entrance to the medical centre too long for her liking. As if he's willing the kid to come racing out those double doors, cured and healthy again as he goes straight for him.

"We all are." He shrugs, seemingly unperturbed, but she knows better.

She's not. Not really, not like this, not like the kid. And he's not either; well, to an extent.

"He just seems more so 'cos he's little, but not so squishy anymore," Clint tells her, as if he doesn't need to hear her say the words to translate what she's thinking. She wonders if it's a learned trait from spending so much time around the kid and being a part of his little world; or if he just knows her that well.

She thinks it's probably a little of both.

"He'll bounce back soon enough," he says her, giving her a poor attempt at a smile. "Just wait."

She relays her belief in him, in the kid, by placing her hand over his and threading her fingers through the spaces he's left for her to fill.

She doesn't voice any of what she's thinking though, because there's something unsettling about it all and she doesn't enjoy being unsettled.

.

The doctors allow Jack to take Francis home under strict instructions to follow their after-care program. It mostly consists of stuff they're well-versed in already, like repeatedly checking the kid can say his own name, making sure he doesn't spontaneously decide to puke his guts out or become so dizzy he keels over and knocks himself out again. Things like that. Someone on the med staff even prints them off a handy sheet of things to look out for, which Jack hands to the kid with the instruction to  _practice his English language_.

He appears by the car window and waves his big purple cast around until Clint pops open the door and drags him inside.

Jack steps into the driver's seat, while Natasha transfers to the front, and shoots a look over her shoulder at the pair of them. "I blame you," she states.

He laughs. "How did I know?"

"Know what he said when he was getting it done?" is her reply to that, shifting in her seat and lifting a hand as she alternates between watching the road ahead and communicating with her passengers in the back seat, "Wouldn't shut up about it, kept telling me:  _Arch'll love this_! And  _Isn't this great, Jackie? Wait 'til Archer sees this_."

" _You do though, right, Arch_?" Francis grins across at him from the centre console, because apparently the next seat over is just too far away. Kid's always had this thing with physical contact.

"' _Course I do_ ," he easily endorses the kid's color choice and takes the marker from his uninjured hand. " _Looks brilliant, kid, good choice,"_  he tells him, grinning all the while. And just to wheedle her further, Clint adds, " _Purple really suits you, we should've had you wearing it earlier_."

" _Like I said_ ," Jack reiterates from the front seat, movements more emphatic than before and locking eyes with him in the central mirror, " _I blame you_."

He's laughing as he scrawls a message across the fiberglass that reads:  **Next time, let the engineers assemble the plane. You just concentrate on piloting the damn thing so you can fly.**

" _Gnat?_ " The kid hands the marker over to her and thrusts the broken limb across the space between the back seat and front, ever hopeful she'll write something that doesn't blatantly ridicule his misfortune for all the world to see, now he's mostly out of the woods. He should really know better by now.

Still, kid's wearing a faint scowl when he finishes reading what she's written and when Clint tugs his cast-covered arm towards him, he barks out another laugh at the Russian's accompaniment to his own.

**Next time, pick a place with a softer landing spot. And take a parachute, just in case.**

On the inside of the cast, running up the length of his arm, Jack's written in Swedish:  **Birds are supposed to fly, silly. You won't get where you want to go if you aim for the ground.**

It's a light-hearted chide, mixed with what he knows is her hope for the kid's future; same as all of them. That he'll find there's more to life than this, and he'll strike out on his own and do more than just carry on: he'll thrive.

.

They're in the back room, when she looks to him and says, "He'll be ok, yes?"

It strikes him that she might actually be concerned for the kid's welfare. Sure he'd watched her earlier, but that could be passed off as her simply reacting to the current scenario, judging the situation and responding in a way that compliments what he and the others around them are doing, like she's so very good at.

He doesn't voice such thoughts, lest she run away from them like he knows she would.

"Kid's got scars coming out of his ears, Tash. Literally," he assures her, feeling more assured now himself. "One more won't hurt. He'll be fine."

She nods. "Of course."

"It's nice though, that you were asking after him," he broaches the subject that much.

She says nothing.

"He's taken a liking to you," he continues, "But I guess you already knew that.  _Gnat_."

He grins at her and she takes an easy swipe at him like she'd swat at the fly she's been named after.

"S'why he got so defensive on you earlier," he notes, "Kid likes you, which means he doesn't like it when you do anything that could be seen to contradict the little bond he's so sure the pair of you have."

"I was aware," she responds, her lips twisting as indication that she's humoring him here and she doesn't mind so much letting him spell out something she already knows, even if it is what she does. Read between the lines; tease information from the morsels left for her; ascertain sensitive intel by any means necessary from those tasked with keeping it out of the hands of those like her. Except there's no one like Nat, not really.

Still; there's no one quite like the Kid either, he's sure.

"Kid likes you," he reiterates and then draws attention to what runs alongside this, "And you like him."

She neither confirms nor denies this, but her lips curve more than curl and he knows it's true.

"So now we all like each other, maybe we should get Jack to throw a party to celebrate?" he suggests, already prepared for the answer.

"No more parties," comes her flat-out refusal, and just to ram the point home she grabs the nearest pillow and smacks him with it. "I mean it, Clint, I'm not putting up with that many children in the same room, hyped up on that much sugar again. Not unless I get to shoot or otherwise maim at least one person per child present  _and_  I'm getting paid a ridiculous amount of money for it. Like the kind of reimbursement I'd expect from babysitting a billionaire eccentric and having to put up with all the shit that goes with."

"So that's what I've got to work with here? Ok," he agrees, and then stops short to ask, "Wait, are you imposing a ban on the sugar or just the children?"

He grabs the cushion when she aims it at him again, because of course she doesn't believe him for a minute, and pulls her bodily towards him.

"Ok," he relents, softer now as he breathes out into a smile, "How about we just celebrate this little victory ourselves then?"

She pretends to consider this even as she draws closer into him. "I suppose I could be amenable to such plans."

Before he can go getting any ideas though, she rips the pillow out from between them and uses it to shove him backwards, towards the door.

"But first, you need to go outside and deal with that boy out there because he did not learn enough about the laws of physics during that journey to stop him falling off another tree swing," she instructs, and nods to the little figure in the backyard, who has indeed plonked himself down on the tire that hangs from another giant tree out there, swaying back and forth. "I'm not watching someone fall from the sky twice in one day; once is more than enough. Go teach him it's ok to plant your feet on solid ground sometimes and see where it takes you."

"Yes, Ma'am," he replies, like he would his superior once upon a time, and even salutes her.

He winks at her, which isn't so much part of the basic military etiquette they tried to drill into him as what he's like around her.

"What would I do without you there to keep me on track?" he comments, and he's not really expecting a response, but she give him one anyway.

"Probably throw yourself off a greater height than him," she says knowingly.

To which he grins at her and gifts her with his gratitude for all their sakes: "Thanks Nat."

.

The kid is sitting on the tree swing he fashioned himself – the original one, before the whole wooden-plane fiasco.

He doesn't need to concentrate very hard to hear him in his head:  _ **"I only need you to throw the rope over, Arch, 'cos you're bigger 'n me. But if you're gonna try an' help more so you can steal my glory, I'll jus get Gnat. She can wear those heels of hers so she's super tall and she can do the best knots too, so it won't wiggle free.**_   _ **'Fact, maybes I'll just ask Gnat to help."**_

_**Clint's response had been something along the lines of, "Sure kid, you go do that."** _

And then he'd sat back on the porch to watch events unfold.

Now he watches the little legs kick off the ground, tiptoes skimming the earth as the tire sways under the movement. The only indication the kid's in any way bothered by the cast on his arm is when it gets stuck upon entry to the cookie jar in his grasp. The little frown on his face becomes quickly obvious along with the complete indignation that such a thing is possible: that he's actually being thwarted by this medical contraption. And his determined pout and the way he jiggles his bum arm back and forth till he pulls it free, sans cookie, has Clint actively trying not to shake his head and laugh at the kid.

Francis glares at the cast and then at the glass jar, pauses for but a moment and then grins like a feral cat before it pounces on its prey. The six year old cups the palm of his good hand, hooks the cookie jar in the crook of his arm and then shakes it until the contents all fall out. What he doesn't catch in his tiny hand, settles in the scoop of his t-shirt and he drops the jar to the grass with a dull thud and begins devouring the cookies at once.

Kid probably shouldn't be on the swing in the first place with the gauze taped to the side of his head, the scrapes and bruises covering his skin, and the arm that's immobilized at an angle in vibrant purple. He probably shouldn't do a lot of things that Clint and Jack, and even Nat, stand back and let him do; but he'll never learn if he doesn't get back on the horse and start riding again.

He'd discarded the sling almost immediately, getting tangled up in it and the seat belt while trying to sign on the ride back. He always has more fun using both hands.

Clint carries it over to him now though with the lesson, " _Maybe if you'd kept this on you'd have had somewhere to catch all those cookies_."

" _I have somewhere to catch all the cookies_ ," Francis tells him, like this should be obvious, " _Got two hands, Arch!_ "

The kid waves at him with both, nearly toppling from the makeshift seat with laughter and the imbalance caused from being severely weighted down on one side.

" _And s'long as they end up where I want 'em don't matter how they got there,_ " he adds with a cocky little grin Clint knows he's learned from him. Then he uses a couple of fingers of his supposedly 'useless' arm to flick a cookie up in the air like he's tossing a coin to decide his fate and jerks forward to catch it between his teeth. It's  _almost_  like the kid's saying:  _Take that, gravity, you bitch!_ But of course, he wouldn't, and he doesn't. He just may have also got his love of the theatrics from Clint.

Clint's in front of him before he can land face-first in the dirt, although he seriously contemplates letting the little guy go it on his own to knock him down another peg or two. Of course, the streak of pride when the kid grins at him around a mouthful of cookie stops him and instead has him silently congratulating himself on a job well done by someone's count.

" _You have so much more to learn, kid_ ," he says, and shakes his head at the antics that are so familiar, as he marvels at the boy in his arms who just offers him a cookie with the unspoken prompt:  _Your go._

" _Yeah, but that's why you're here, Arch_ ," the kid says, looking up at him with an easy smile and munching happily on the treats he won for himself like he doesn't have a care in the world.

He supposes when your mentors consist of three of the top agents of a multi-national secret organization and a woman who makes it her mission to avoid any direct contact with said organization and succeeds, you probably don't have much to worry about.

As life should be for the kid.

.

"He's yours, isn't he?" she whispers into the darkness and finds him staring back at her.

"I know his Dad," he responds, clear as day in the dead of night.

 _Don't we all_ , she thinks and scoffs, "Sure you do."

"That's right, I do," he tells her. "I know his Dad."

When she stays quiet he nudges her.

"Stick to the party line, Nat," he says to her, "It's better for everyone."

He is the first person she's ever taken for their word.

The last time she did that he spared her life. If this is what she has to do to repay that debt, she'll do it; she'll do it for him, so it's better for everyone.

.

He's six years old when they show him that caring for people comes with a price, but sometimes it's the only thing that's worth a damn.

.

**TBC**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading.


	4. Eight Years, Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, so this clearly took a while longer than I anticipated.  
> I should also really know by now not to issue timeframes on my work, since even vague mentions of them will turn out to be grossly misleading and just plain wrong. My apologies – Although on the plus side, this chapter grew even longer than it was previously, which is something of an achievement given the previous measure, so it’s being posted in two-parts! Both parts will be posted very close together – that I can guarantee. (Proofreading will be done for the millionth time at a time that is not 5am :) )
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy :)
> 
> A/N: Flashbacks are in bold italic.  
> Anything in another language other than spoken English will generally be in italics.
> 
> Oh and there may be some cursing and swearing in this chap.

.

He's eight years old when they all seem to agree on something for the first time.

They teach him their version of defense and how they justify the use of it.

It's not so different from Jackie's motto, the one he lives by: your home and your own above all else.

.

Jack tells him they're coming. "So don't shoot 'em," she says, "unless it's with something that's really gonna pack a punch!" Then she laughs like she actually wants him to do just that, but takes his Nerf guns off him after she says it. She does leave his bow within easy reach, but Jack's always been a little odd like that. All the same, he sneaks one away from her not-so-hidey-hole.

There's only one figure on the road, and he's never known Jack to be wrong about anything so he thinks they must've messed up the message. That or this is their version of a surprise. They can be as peculiar as Jack sometimes.

The first thing Francis notices is the color of her hair. It's not red.

He's sitting on the porch swing waiting for her: the picture of ease with one leg crossed over the other and the opposite arm stretched along the back of the seat. As laidback as he might appear though he's ever mindful of keeping brown leather on gray wool, ankle over knee, as he uses the foot planted on the wooden slats to push himself back and forth. If he gets the sole of his boots caught on his good suit trousers or smears even a smidge of mud into the leg, Jack'll pitch a fit. And then probably make him fix them himself; which Francis does _not_ fancy doing _at all_.

He watches as she makes uneven tracks towards him, a thin spiral of dust kicking up behind her with each lopsided step of her black heeled booties. (He notices that too because he's been brought up to watch out for everything, even with her, and he's never known Gnat to be anything but sure-footed. So the fact she looks like she's actually _trying_ to be now makes it's kind of obvious something's up.)

The wind catches in her curls and they float more than bounce as she ascends the stairs to where he sits with his Super Soaker filled with spirit vinegar. He was going to go for the stash of Russian that Jack got for her on the trip back, but last time he did that Gnat and Archer just snatched the gun out his hands and took turns drinking it from the nozzle using their stupidly good aim. Jack laughed when she learned of his attempt to piss them off and how it turned into him providing them with refreshments instead. She at least seemed satisfied with the outcome when she asked him what the lesson taught him and he told her with a shrug and a crooked smile that he learned from someone much older and far more jaded (her words) that he'd just have to try harder next time. He's not sure it counts if there's only one of them and he doesn't fire his weapon. He wonders if they planned this; their minds do seem to be in perpetual scheming mode, after all.

Gnat glances at the weapon that's laid across his lap, but doesn't comment on whether he plans to use it. He thinks that'd be a bit hypocritical of her anyway. _She's_ the one who's kitted out in all black and looks ready to take on a legion of enemy forces should they happen to pop up behind Jack's handmade keeper-outter thingimijigs. (For lack of a better term _slash_ patent pending on some of the more creative ones Francis wants to use.)

He'd gone for the gun he and Arch did a custom paint job on 'cos camo print sorta loses its effect when they're not chasing each other through the woods – and besides this one looks ace. Not to mention the splices of orangey-red match most of the block coloring on his puffer vest and Uncle Phil's always said co-ordination's a good thing to aim for if there's nothing else available. (Arch snorted at that first time he heard it, and told him _kid, there is_ _ **always**_ _something to aim for_ ; but sometimes Francis wonders if that's because he wears his sunglasses too much and the things have built-in targets on the lenses. It wouldn't be totally outwith the realm of possibility: he's been watching the man shoot for years.)

She doesn't really seem all that interested in the gun in his hand so much as the arm settled across it. The sleeve of his woolen jumper is shoved up, so the dark cuff cuts across his forearm and the scar that runs along the inside of it. Sometimes he forgets she goes a little funny when she's reminded of how he got hurt that time right in front of her and she couldn't really do anything about it. He doesn't think she'd be like that if she knew of all the _other_ times he's gotten hurt when her and Arch haven't been around, but maybe she would. She's got this crazy over-protective streak that flares up sometimes whenever she claps eyes on him.

It's actually sort of nice to think she'd tear his would-be attacker limb from limb for even considering harming him nevermind believing they could do so without consequence. It's certainly a change from imagining Jack electrocuting them with one of her gadgets or collapsing one of her rigs and burying them alive or blowing them sky-high with one of her improvised 'fire-starters'. He's always thought Uncle Phil would probably run his offender down in one of his classic cars, if he wasn't so fond of the model. Unless he used the red one, because _there's_ something that can pack a punch _and_ you'd hardly need to put in any effort to get the blood off the paintwork.

He's not so sure what Archer would do. Sure the man has insanely good aim, but sometimes when Francis catches Archer watching him there's a look in his eyes that's scarier than all the ones he's seen of Gnat's. So Francis doesn't imagine anything good awaits those who try to cross Arch to get to him, which is an even nicer thought in a way.

It's probably not the most 'normal' way of thinking of how safe his life is, and if he was to listen to the message most American TV shows seem to want to impress upon him he should probably be requesting Jack send him to see a psychiatrist (ha! Like that'd ever happen), but he's happy this way. Sure the moving can get a bit tiring and meeting new people all the time can be somewhat annoying at times, and the security detail (human, mechanical, electronic… and the rest) seems far more advanced than the folk in real Witness Protection get; but he has four guardians here on earth that would likely find a way to _literally_ raise Hell to avenge any wrongdoing done toward him. He'll take that as a win any day.

.

"Francis." Gnat greets him in the same voice she uses on Archer when she says his name and Francis is within earshot.

She doesn't _sound_ upset, or angry, or anything really; so he takes that to mean she's not playing messenger for the dearly departed. At least he hopes she's not. If she waits to tell him, springs it on him when he's finally relaxed enough in her sole company, he's gonna shoot the vinegar in her eyes – with prejudice. (It's his _word of the day_ ; but that's a really good line so he'll have to remember to tell it to Jack – he reckons she'd like that one.)

"How come your hair's like mine?" he asks, the blue of his eyes tracing each light swoop that frames her face.

Her lips quirk up at his words and her response is all coy and innocent like she doesn't already know the answer to the question she asks in return. "You don't think it suits me?"

He fits her with a look that aims to tell her he knows exactly what she's doing and he's not falling for it. "You could never _not_ be pretty, Gnat," he says, like it's so obvious he'd know it even if it was his eyes that needed help to work right, not his ears. "Changing your hair colour ain't never gonna change that."

"A compliment from the mouth of a babe," she remarks, with a sigh and a satisfied look on her face, "Why thank you, Francis."

He rolls his eyes, because that's her way of making fun of the Southern that's crept back into him since he and Jack've been back in the country. "So why's it different?"

"Work requirement," she answers easily, and even does a sort of half-shrug like it's no big deal at all that she's supposed to be expected to change how she looks to fulfil a job. He thinks it's stupid; but he thinks a lot of what Arch and Gnat reveal about what they do is stupid, and he's learned not to say anything about it. Well, to a point.

She sweeps on by him, calling out to Jack as she does so and receiving no reply in return. Well, even he could've predicted that.

He turns and follows her, amazed that anyone could tell her what to do; near floored that she'd listen enough to actually do it. "They can do that? Like say you gotta do something, click their fingers, and you jus' do it?"

"Well, that depends," Gnat tells him with a conspiring wink, "If I _really_ want to take the job, sometimes they don't even have to ask me nicely."

When she's finished eyeing the interior of the place, she graces Francis with that look he loves; the one that assures him he's been right about her all along, with the glint in her eye and the kink in her cheek.

"They also pay a ridiculous amount of money to keep me in their employ," she tells him, sounding pleased with herself, as she rightly should be. "So it's beneficial in the long-run to occasionally let them think they control my on/off switch."

He grins, because that's more like the Gnat he knows.

Jack appears in the doorway and instructs him to: "Go make some noise in the other room, Birdie. Your girl and I need to have words."

The first time she'd called Gnat that he'd scrunched up his nose so much, Jack had squeezed it until he was gasping out his mouth. She'd told him he was too pretty to make faces like that, and it was too windy where they were and she didn't want it sticking like that. She didn't deal with ugly boys in her ranks, although she dealt with a lot.

Jack's always teaching him stuff in daft ways like that; but sometimes that's the best way, and sometimes it's just 'cos it's Jack teaching him.

_**Francis laughs at her newest trick and tells her he got his natural beauty from her.** _

_**He expects her to give him a playful shove or ruffle his hair and tell him, "you're such a flannel, Birdie", but she doesn't do any of that. What she does is look at him like she's seeing him for the first ever time, with that soft smile she gives him when she's tucking him in at night, and says, "Oh no, Birdie, I can't take credit for that one. You're your mother's double."** _

" _ **Was she beautiful?" he breathes out, and he's not real sure why that's important, but sometimes he dreams of a lady with long blonde hair and bright blue eyes and he's always thought angels would be the most beautiful of all.**_

_**She nods, and now he thinks she might actually cry and he isn't sure what to do or say because he's never seen Jackie cry before. "Just like you."** _

_**He throws his arms around her, and she kisses behind each of his ears and holds him close to her, and he feels like he always does in her arms: whole.** _

.

"Get on over here," the elder instructs and helpfully gestures to the space next to her, even going so far as to _pat_ the area she's talking about.

Natasha gives her a sidelong look.

"You got all this way on your own, you can get yourself onto a surface that I can clean afterwards," Jack replies, indignant, "Because if you think I'm letting you stain my good wood with your insides then that wound's definitely infected and you're already well on your way to being a complete goner, so I might not even bother trying to do anything about it."

She rolls her eyes at the insinuation that she can't even irrigate a simple bullet wound, that it's already affecting her ability to form coherent and rational thoughts. She blows out a breath. "He called you?"

"Of course," is the scoff, with a look to question the younger woman's sanity. "He didn't want me putting another bullet hole in you when you triggered one of my prized intruder alert signals."

Natasha quirks an eyebrow at that, and knows she looks as confident as her tone suggests: "I managed to bypass your defenses just fine, _granny dearest_."

"Or I turned them off for your arrival, young blood," Jack returns, and winks at her, "You'll never know."

.

When she's settled in the spot marked out for her, the elder sets about pinpointing the extent of her various wounds and getting rid of Natasha's battlefield options in lieu of her own, which are _far superior_ and _actual solutions_ to her current problem (all Jack's words, naturally).

"Did you hit your head on your latest escapade?" Jack questions, as she finishes tending to Natasha's side, "Because your definition of _a graze_ – in whatever language your tongue takes a fancy to – needs a rethink."

"'Tis but a flesh wound," Natasha quips in return.

The elder just looks at her in that deadpan, unimpressed way she usually reserves for Clint – or the kid, when he's channeling Clint.

"Your idea of what that constitutes needs looking at too," Jack says to that. "I'll give you points for the pressure bandage, but next time you come to me as the walking wounded I'm going to knock you out and fix you up that way. Far easier."

" _Next time_ I'm going to raid your medicine cabinet and do it myself, 'save being subjected to your version of _Twenty Questions_ and whatever this barbaric treatment is you call _helping_ ," Natasha responds; because he's not the only one who likes to rile Jack up sometimes _just because_.

"Whoever said that it was in some way beneficial for the patient to be conscious and alert to gain insight into what is actually wrong clearly didn't have to deal with _you_ being the narrator," is the quick retaliation. "If I have to suffer through your completely unhelpful, amateur and – _let's be honest_ – grossly misleading, self-assessment again I'm ripping your attempt at a dressing off and letting you bleed out in the garden."

She slaps Natasha's hand away as her fingers inch towards a strip of gauze nearby, with a swift: "I'm not finished yet." It's not clear if Jack's referring to the spiel she's currently spilling or her version of healthcare.

"Make sure it's around Halloween when you come by though, that way we can use you as our main feature. We'll call you: _The Lady in Red_. You'll be a hit with the neighborhood kids, it'll be great," Jack continues in a more conversational tone, like they're not talking about Natasha'a dead body being strung up in the yard like a piece of modern art. "And when you decompose, the plants'll flourish and it'll look like I actually put effort into making them look that way." She claps her hands together with a satisfied smile and proclaims, "Happy campers all round."

"Your bedside manner needs work," Natasha says to the other woman's back as she turns to cross to the opposite side of the room, "Doctors are supposed to instill confidence in their patient's recovery, not infer they'd rather leave them to die out in the cold."

"Oh, I'm sorry, next time we'll settle further _South_ for your very specific body temperature," Jack throws back, and makes sure she's facing Natasha as she rolls her eyes with the slight: "You big Russian baby."

"Racist," she snipes back, and deliberately waits until the elder has returned to her task at hand to slide her fingers towards the materials lying nearby, grinning triumphantly when they snag on the plastic of unopened packaging.

"I care for a known-delinquent under the age of ten, I have eyes in the back of my head," Jack remarks, full body still in the closet. "Drop the bandage. I'll get to it when I'm good and ready."

She wasn't trying very hard, but she still grumbles in her native tongue; fully aware that Jack can not only hear her, but also understand every word she's uttering. Still, she doesn't make another move to cover up the gash in her side.

"And I'm not a doctor," comes the statement from inside the nearby closet, slightly sing-song like she's really a high-functioning sociopath under the old-lady-who-wouldn't-hurt-a-fly routine. It wouldn't surprise Natasha if this was the case. There's a flash of something in Jack's eyes as she looks over her shoulder to add: "I'm just handy with tools."

When she pivots in her place it's to step back into the room and wheel a couple of machines into the space with her. Natasha lifts her head and the arm she's using to cradle it at the neck to fit the elder with a look that clearly signifies her thoughts on this sudden turn-of-events.

"Just doing my duty and providing a thorough exam," Jack responds to that, even flashing the other a smile that looks equal parts amused and self-satisfied. It's a step up from irritated anyway.

"Is there a sound, medical reason behind the X-Ray machine and ultrasound equipment you have stashed in your closet?" Natasha queries, "Or did you just fancy getting the kid started on _Breaking and Entering_ and _Grand Larceny_ before he reached double figures?"

"He gets his criminal tendencies from you two. I merely teach him valuable life skills. I don't _steal_ everything I hold in my possession," the elder deflects, "Sometimes they're dropped in my lap."

She doesn't give Jack the satisfaction of rolling her eyes or commenting on such a blatant play.

Jack continues regardless, "And don't think your attempt to derail his upbringing means I'm going to ignore the fact you have a bullet wound through your side that would appear to have _somehow_ missed anything vital."

"Which is not that surprising since it's a _graze_ ," Natasha interrupts.

"And yet the tiny measurements of your waist and the fact even the kid noticed something was up with you would suggest a need for further inspection, no?" is the immediate reply to her flimsy defense.

"He tries to emulate his elders too much. I was barely even limping," she dismisses, unperturbed, and then takes pleasure in reminding the other woman, "And you're not a doctor."

"And yet I have all this here medical equipment stashed in my closet," Jack parrots back, "Just think of all the other trinkets I keep in there: analgesics, anesthetics, something that probably constituted some form of _Truth Serum_ once upon a time." She flashes Natasha a wide smile meant as a pure annoyance. "Fun for all the family, I'm sure."

"Let's just get this over with," Natasha grits out, resigning herself to her current fate. She's been through worse; although she's now seriously debating how she could have considered this a better alternative than S.H.I.E.L.D medical – even if it was stationed in a virtual war-zone when she chose to make her exit.

"So grouchy," Jack snipes back, and prods on a particular spot that _just happens_ to be somewhat _delicate_ on a body that's already housing more sections to cause her nuisance than Natasha would like. The elder grins at the ripple Natasha doesn't bother to suppress and says, "But I suppose that's to be expected when the divot in your side results in a couple of cracked ribs. So I won't be donating a kidney or part of my liver, it still deserves an _I told you so_."

"And apparently the kid's not the only one who needs to lay off the copycat routine," she responds to that, rolling her head to the side.

There's irony there for anyone who knows her line of work, and Jack does, of course Jack does; but she doesn't do more than comment, "Oh, don't be a sore loser."

Then she deposits some pills in Natasha's hand and finishes wrapping the no-longer-oozing wound in her side.

She eyes the little beads in her palm, trying to make out _something_ from their non-descript color and shape. "Are you planning on telling me what you're attempting to drug me with? Or is this another of your _games_?"

"Something that'll get you to shut up and give me some peace for starters," Jack replies, dismissive of the implications in Natasha's words. It's not such a surprise since that's sort of her 'go-to' response for anything she doesn't like the sound of that comes from the mouths of the three S.H.I.E.L.D. Agents that continually drop in on her and her charge despite her repeated change of address.

"So much for Southern hospitality," Natasha remarks and sniffs at the state of the material covering her body (what's left of it) now Jack's had her hands on her.

"Oh, is _that_ what I'm lacking?" the elder asks. "And here I thought _not_ slamming the door on your face or moving location _before_ you came a-knocking would count for something. That's done out of the goodness of my heart too. But 'figures you lot, with all your demanding and ungrateful tendencies, still give me more work than Birdie."

"I suppose we know who to blame for his dramatic streak," she observes in return.

"Unless you think I'm about to claim my heritage resides in a traveling circus, which it most certainly _does not_ , that one belongs to your man also," Jack tells her, with blatant non-compliance. "Trumps nigh on everything that carnival lark of his does."

"Of course," she breathes out, and feels her body sinking further into the spread beneath her. For someone who claims they cause her more hassle than she can be bothered to deal with, Jack has put them up in some fairly nice digs over the years, and she always makes sure they're kitted out for the neighborhood and the climate.

Jack smiles at her lazily from the seat next to the bed.

"Pills kicking in yet?"

"They better not be sleeping tablets," Natasha threatens, and cracks open one eye to fix it on the elder.

Jack makes sure to roll hers. "Relax, would you? They're pain meds. You know, to counter the pain you're _loathe_ to admit exists?"

And then the older woman grins in a way that tells her it doesn't matter if this could be counted as a breakthrough in Natasha's own psyche; she's just damn pleased with herself.

"The drowsiness is likely an aftereffect from dragging your poor wounded self from a literal war-zone – I have real-time footage if you want to cozy up together and watch – all the way to my humble abode, instead of seeking medical attention from your bunch of glorified hangers-on at their nearest super-secret government hangout." Natasha opens both her eyes and twists her head round to stare at the other as she continues, "I could've provided co-ordinates and a step-by-step guide to get there if you'd asked. Saved on the exhaustion somewhat. With helpful little tips and nice quality pictures for reference, so you didn't have to work your way through the dross to get to the big Doc in charge – but you didn't bother, and now here we are."

"Don't think just because you're playing nurse that I'll forgive you for slipping me some kind of hypnotic," she warns the elder, eyes closed and hands clasped rigidly in place over her stomach.

"Pfft," Jack fobs her off seemingly without care for the aforementioned repercussions, and Natasha doesn't need to look at the elder to envision the expression or actions she's currently employing. "Contrary to popular belief, missy, even your body needs a break now and then from everything you and your ridiculous antics put it through."

She makes a sound of non-commitment to that statement, and rolls her shoulders back into the mattress.

"That's right, you just go to sleep," the elder voices her approval, "My boy and I have plans, and you've put us off schedule enough already."

"You need to learn to adapt to what life throws at you," Natasha retorts, mildly irritated that the drowsiness she can feel seeping through her is starting to clog up her mouth as well.

"Keep up the comedian act and I'll have to deal with that _traumatic brain injury_ of yours before it alters any more of your personality."

"Still not a doctor," she reminds the elder; because Jack does have a tendency to forget certain facts, which she deems _minor irrelevant details_ _that have no direct bearing on this situation_. And yes, that is a direct quote from the woman herself. Admittedly, sometimes this leads to fun. Other times, it absolutely does not.

"No, not a doctor," Jack agrees, "But I do have some tools, which would be perfect for performing a lobotomy."

See? She's not sure how that would be fun for anyone, least of all her.

"You're a lot less compassionate than I'd expect from a Florence Nightingale reincarnate," Natasha remarks, finally touching on the elder's past life in the _Old Country_. A little late given the whole work-up she's just received, but sometimes it's better to play it this way.

"And you've come up a tad short in your morning-after routine by my count. You ought to be more thorough in disposing of _all_ of your bedmates, if the tales are to be believed, _Widow_ ," Jack returns smartly.

It's a fine line whether this is a dig at Natasha herself, the two of them in general, or just the fact that they deign to share a bed under her roof. It's probably meant to serve as all of the above. Never wastes an opportunity this one.

"And you lot need to stop spinning tales about my past," Jack chastises with a swift slap to Natasha's fiddling hands.

She still doesn't open her eyes, but she does allow a scowl to form fully across her brow for the elder to see.

Jack leans down to whisper conspiratorially, "I wasn't always _Mother Mary_."

She wasn't always the Black Widow; it doesn't mean she wasn't to be feared.

And Jack is more than a mother bear ferociously protecting her young cub; there's an undercurrent Natasha has long since recognized as the warning of total and utter devastation that will result if someone so much as thinks of harming her boy.

' _Takes one to know one_ , the kid had once quipped, but he'd looked to them all as he'd said it, like they were each as much a threat to any would-be attackers and every bit as protective of his wellbeing. He'd been right, of course, but none of them thought to tell him that.

.

Natasha shoves open the door in her way and shuffles one sneaker-clad foot after the other across the threshold, squinting a little at the light that attempts to blind her for her efforts to get some fresh air and vitamin D.

"Should you be moving around like that?" comes the voice from the other end of the veranda.

She turns to the source and shoots him a look. "I didn't realize you and your minder had set up a fully-fledged medical clinic in our absence. Are we all doctors in this place now? Should I expect to be sedated and shoved back into bed in the next two minutes if I don't comply with your wishes?"

"Pull up a pew before you hurt yourself more," Francis says to that, smiling easily, unfazed by her irritated response, "Or Jackie comes in and catches you and I have to shirk the blame for not playing human crutch to your walking wounded."

He nudges the porch swing in her direction and she reaches out a hand to steady it before lowering herself onto the pillows there. It sways under her weight and she's not sure what those pills of Jack's contained, but she's glad they didn't cause her to wake up nauseous as well as groggy or she'd be about ready to puke from the back-and-forth motion.

There's a sudden scraping sound and a stool comes skidding across the space towards her. She lifts her injured leg and stops it with the other firmly planted on the floor. She raises an eyebrow at him, as she slowly brings her foot down onto the cushioned surface.

The kid just grins up at her, propped up on his elbows as he lies across the wooden slats, the bright highlighter-yellow windbreaker tied round his waist billowing over the backs of his legs like a beacon in the shade. "Just looking out for you, Gnat."

He doesn't say it, but she hears it anyway: _Like you look out for me._

.

She watches as he slams his books shut; sitting up and sweeping all the utensils he has laid out in front of him into one big pile. When he's finished systematically placing each pen back in its place in the pack, he stacks everything and lifts it with him as he launches himself upright, his feet popping out the backs of slip-on sneakers with the quick snap of his heels. Then he transfers everything to one arm and makes a valiant attempt at brushing the dust off the front of his T-shirt and the sweatpants bunched up around his knees.

"I gotta go to town, you wanna come with?" he finally lifts his head to announce, looking to her expectantly.

"I thought your whole point was that I'm supposed to stay _off_ the leg," Natasha quips in return, gesturing to the offending injury.

"Well, yeah," he concedes, and she can tell this goes entirely against what he'd been planning, but he soldiers on regardless; plastering on a wide smile and gesturing to himself as he says, "But human crutch, remember?"

"And how do you propose we get to town?" she enquires, already knowing what mode of transport he's going to suggest.

Francis cocks his head to the side. "'Car's an automatic, Gnat, even _I_ could drive it."

His lips twist into a smirk that's all too familiar then and it's not difficult to determine what's going to come next.

"Except for the _small_ matter of being able to reach the pedals," she comments, and then allows her lips to curve slowly as she asks of him, "Remind me again how much you've grown in our absence? Still waiting on the big growth spurt though, right?"

He's not at all impressed by that, which only serves to amuse her. "I'm sure Jack's got something round here I could use to solve what isn't really a problem in the first place." Given his tone, she half expects him to stick his tongue out at her. He's such a child.

"I'm sure she does too," Natasha agrees, unruffled, "Doesn't mean I'm going to be your crash dummy while you test it out. No, if we're going, I'll be the one in control of the twenty-gallon gas tank on wheels."

He grins triumphantly like she didn't know this was his plan all along and scuttles off inside to get the keys, rushing back and grinding to a halt before her with the exclamation, "Ready!"

Kid's not even out of breath.

"So you dress up to be my welcome party, but not to be seen out in public with me?" she asks, gesturing with the smallest amount of movement to his current attire. There's nothing wrong with it, in fact he looks the eight years old that he is, but it's certainly a step down from the outfit he was sporting when she arrived the night prior. Besides, he's spent so much time with Jack the back-and-forth is often as easy with him as it is with the elder.

"No," he responds, "I dress up to go to Church. You just arrived yesterday before I'd changed out of my good clothes."

He tosses her the keys and she catches them in one hand as she pushes herself further upright with the other. That in itself is quite the feat given the beating her body's still reminding her it took not so long ago. As if she's forgotten.

"And you're not Uncle Phil so I don't need to wear my not-quite-Sunday-best all the time," he adds with a quick toothy smile.

"Charming," is her droll response to that, as she swings her legs round and prepares to get to her feet once more.

His grin reappears. "School, Gnat," he tells her, like that should explain it (actually it sort of does) and clues her into the fact she's apparently slept a whole night and day away.

She has a few choice words for Jack about those so-called _not_ sleeping pills.

He holds out one hand towards her with an offering. "Jackie said you weren't feeling too hot, so I got you this to warm you up."

"Funny," Natasha snipes back, but takes the camouflage-print scarf from him anyway and wraps it around herself. It's white and gray with purple accents: of course it is; they do things like this on purpose. That phrase about idle hands? She wouldn't be surprised if it's their family motto.

"Better?" he asks, holding out his arms and awaiting her inspection now he's donned a blue and white checked shirt.

"I suppose you'll do." She sighs like he's a terrible inconvenience to be burdened with and then grits her teeth and pushes herself into a standing position.

Francis just laughs; she's hardly dressed for dinner at a three-Michelin-star restaurant herself. She supposes she can allow him that much, when she's wearing dark jeans and a cotton zip-up jacket over a simple gray tank top. Although if a Michelin-star restaurant of _any_ rating even existed in the same state as the one they're currently residing in, she's sure she'd manage. She knows how to work the body _in_ the clothes, and that's generally all fools see when they look at her anyway; which is the _how_ and _why_ they tend to become dead fools.

"No matter," the kid disregards her comment for better or worse, stepping forward and offering her a steadying hand as he tells her, "I plan to rock my best on Thursday so's to get all the girls' heads turning."

With her hand in his, she shakes her head at his line. "Oh, kid, you have so much to learn."

"Only if you'll be my teacher." He winks at her and allows her to test out the strength of her injured limb unaided.

"I'll be your martial arts teacher, is what I'll be," she returns, and takes two steps forward just to prove she can, "And beat your smart ass into the ground."

She pulls her other hand from the pocket of her hooded top and takes a swipe at him. He jumps back from the playful gesture, laughing, surrendering already with his hands up in defense. It's worth the sudden flare of pain for that alone.

"We need to go to the office supply place so I can get stuff for my school project. Hey, d'you wanna help me with it?" he asks, like the thought's just occurred to him, and this time she suspects it might have.

"What's the project?" Natasha asks, because of course she wants to know up front, she's not an idiot.

"Everyone's making Valentine's Day gifts for their Moms, but since mine's gone, I'm gonna do one for Jack," the kid tells her as easily as he'd just hopped backwards down the porch steps.

"Your teacher suggested that alternative?" she enquires, keeping her voice deliberately even.

"Well, no," he divulges, "But there's not much diff'rence, is there? If they make stuff for their Moms and I make it for Jackie?"

He scuttles off to open the driver's side door for her and she gives him an appropriate look of gratitude for the gesture. He waits until she's settled before skipping off to let himself in too.

"Miss. Leonard, that's my teacher's name," he informs her as he buckles up and she starts the engine, "She doesn't let us away with anything, s'why I think Jack likes her. That and the rosary she spied in Miss. Leonard's desk when she first went to see her. If she could, I bet Jack would've given her a gazillion House Points and filled the hourglass all the way to the top with emeralds, or maybe sapphires – jury's still out on that one."

She remains silent as she peels out onto the open road. She doesn't comment on the reference she knows is Coulson-influenced, or the phrase he's obviously quoted direct from some TV show or film or book – or one of them – simply allows him to carry on with his story.

"But she's usually real specific with how she says things, which can get mega boring 'specially since she's always giving me these looks like she's checking I'm ok with it. It's worse when the Principal's around, 'cos then she looks at me like I'm made of glass an' I'm gonna break if she says or does the wrong thing, which is weird – and kinda insulting."

He scrunches up his face at that and then shrugs it away.

"Anyway, I didn't wanna bring it up 'cos I do like her and who knows what would've happened if she thought she'd somehow managed to upset me." The kid rolls his eyes, like this woman, and likely the rest of the faculty as well, are being far too overzealous in their definite-and-not-at-all-subtle-kid-glove-treatment of him. For someone who's only ever been familiar with a very specific style of _protection detail,_ it's not difficult to see how he could find it so overbearing and off-putting. "Honestly, sometimes it's like they're all scared of me."

She turns to Francis and he gifts her with an easy smile, like he's never known any different, and it's close enough to the truth that she'll grab it and run with it.

Because all Natasha can think is: _They should be scared of you;_ and she stares into those bright blue eyes a moment longer, allows his smile to be seared into her memory and take its place among all the others he's given her over the years.

 _They should be scared of you_ , the thought anchors her; _they don't know who you belong to._

.

They're in town gathering art supplies, because like every other kid around he insists on purchasing new stationary before undertaking such a weighty task. At least he can count himself normal in that regard. Besides, Jackie's always said not to start something you can't finish, and not to start something at all unless you've got the right tools for the job. He's just doing as he's been told, they should be proud something from their thousand-and-one lessons appears to have stuck.

And it's all going fine (yes, really!) until someone mistakes Gnat for his Mom.

She stiffens ever so slightly, and he wouldn't have noticed except she had her hand on his shoulder at the time to steer him away towards the checkouts, because: "Seriously kid, that's enough. Put the gel pens down or I'll send you through the metal detectors with a tag on you and leave you to deal with Jack when you get caught."

He can tell she's torn between setting the other person straight – well, straight- _ish_ – and just going along with it. That's a tough one either way, so Francis jumps ahead and makes the decision for her.

"She's sort of as good as," he tells the lady, who's now nodding like broken and patchwork families are the norm around here, accepting her mistake even as he decides to add, "Since my Mom's dead."

The woman looks horrified and immediately starts to apologize, reaching out to Gnat, who looks like she's trying hard not to flinch away. She's usually pretty good in, well, in _any_ situation, so he thinks maybe she was more hurt than Jack would let on to him.

"It's ok," he assures the older woman; tries to play go-between and even takes a step forward so her hand lands on his arm rather than Gnat's (she definitely can't say he never does anything for her again), "Like I said, mine's not here, and she's pretty much like a Mom to me anyway."

The girl standing by the woman's side, Lucy, who sits across from him in class, tugs at her mother's arm with wide eyes and an ' _I can't believe you just did that!_ ' look on her face. The boy by her other side, Tommy, whose seat is right next to his twin sister's, just looks between the two of them and then beams at Francis like this is the best thing he's heard all day. Francis isn't sure if it's 'cos the boy's pleased with the sudden drama caused by someone else for a change, or because he thinks Francis is making it all up.

He'd laugh at the turn of events, but for some reason he doesn't find anything funny in his words.

Gnat seems to agree because she's quieter than normal on their way home, only speaking to tell him, "You shouldn't have done that."

Francis shrugs, and offers her all he's got right now: "Don't see why not. It's close enough to the truth, and sometimes it's nice not to have to lie about my life all the time."

If his actual Mom was around he thinks she'd be as deadly and beautiful as Gnat. She'd care about him the same way too.

A bit like Jack. She's deadly and beautiful and cares about him a whole bunch, but while Gnat's sort of like a Mom to him; Jackie's more like his everything.

.

She's been quiet the whole time they've been sitting there and it's really annoying. Even when Francis deliberately up-ends the contents of the shopping bag all over the table and spreads it across the _both_ of their workspaces, she doesn't say a word. So he sighs and slaps some colored card down in front of her and explains what he wants to do and how she can help him. She lifts her eyebrows to him when he's finished like that might be a tad ambitious even for him, given the time they have to do it in and how good he is at all this arty stuff.

He just smiles right back at her and smugly tells her, "Which is why you're going to help me, Gnat."

She looks like she's having doubts about agreeing to lend him a hand, and he supposes that's not totally unexpected. She's probably never been asked to help make an anatomically correct heart in the form of a piñata before. He has faith in her though; he's never known Gnat not to see a job through to the end.

"Jack likes destroying things," he justifies, and how could she not love this idea of his? He's even gonna drape a banner across the front that reads: ' _Be still, my beating heart_ '. It'll be brilliant. Right up her alley. She'll be so proud. "An' it'll be funny."

She silently gets to work, even if she does stall for a good minute or two afterwards like she'd really have preferred it if he'd just asked her to try hack one of Jack's systems and relay the message there instead. As if. He's young, not stupid.

He's only about halfway done with his owl cards: they're supposed to overlap wings, but his outline had been a little wonky to start with and now he's colored the two in it's more like they're conjoined than holding hands – or wings, whatever. He sets about writing the messages on each, which are pretty great if he does say so himself (' _Owl always love you_ ' and ' _You're a hoot!_ ' – clever, right?).

She's still not said anything, and after a while he decides to do something about it. He sits up in his seat, and with his feet tucked beneath him, he stretches across the table under the guise of reaching for the glue pot. Then he turns his attention towards her and moves to touch a stray strand of blonde, only for her to grab him by the wrist before his fingers get that far.

He frowns at her, at the hand wrapped tightly around his wrist. "Ow," he says, drawn-out and obnoxious.

Gnat drops his arm with a hasty, " _Sorry_." He can tell she means it, because she even signs along with it.

"S'fine," he tells her, but deliberately doesn't rub the skin tinged red by her grip, despite the fact she nearly broke him in half.

"No more than you deserve, Birdie," Jack appears before them both, and clips him about the ear for good measure. She turns his head to face her, chin caught between her thumb and forefinger, " _What've I told you about touching things that don't belong to you?_ "

She schools him in etiquette and manners he should already know by now and Francis can't help but scowl back at her.

Jack flicks him in the centre of the forehead. " _Stop that_ ," she instructs, unraveling his attempt to be mad at her in an instant. She looks from what she deems an " _unintelligible mess"_ on the table, back to the pair of them. "What're you two doing anyway?"

" _Nothing_ ," he answers, too quickly even for him, signing when she's stopped. Although he does make sure not to move his arms from their place covering the card underneath lest he ruin the surprise three days early.

She eyes him with suspicion and looks close to rolling her eyes and blowing out a sigh. "Stellar performance there, really, I'm so convinced now."

The corners of Gnat's lips twist into something that is probably supposed to half resemble a smile, but actually looks more like one of Archer's smug little smirks.

"Have I really brought you up all these years?" Jack muses. "Remind me to do a better job next time, because that is just shocking. I'm ashamed, truly."

"We're playing Cheat later, aren't we?" Francis guesses, although he already knows what she's going to say.

"Damn right we are," Jack confirms, "We need to work on your deceptive skills."

" _It's just you!_ " he cries out, because it's so unfair; how is he supposed to be able to lie convincingly to _Jack?_ _"I can lie just fine to everyone else._ "

"Hmm, we'll see," she comments, lips pursed, and he's all too aware this would not be a point to be encouraged or even congratulated in other children. But it's Jack, and they entertain company like Gnat, so he supposes he's not really like other children. "We've got Poker Night at Sally's on Friday, so you keep this up I'm gonna take this one along with me instead and leave you here."

She jerks her thumb in Gnat's direction, who remains quiet – go figure – and then turns her attention back to him.

He drops his brow and his mouth follows suit, and the sad little puppy face falls into place. "But who's gonna distract the others with their wily charms?"

Jack laughs, clearly has no objection to kicking him when he's down. "I think she'll do just fine, Birdie, but if you're good I'll let you be our backup."

"S'better than abandoning me completely, 'suppose," he grumbles and crosses his arms over one another, drawing them towards his chest and dropping his chin to rest on top.

"Oh quit the drama act, your Archer's not even here," is her flyaway comment to that.

Then she drops a kiss to his hair and ruffles it afterward, replacing one form of affection for another.

"But your girl is, so be nice and give her that smile that makes it worth coming home," Jack says. So he does, and when it takes Gnat a moment longer than usual to lift her lips in return, he smiles even more just for her.

.

The kid's all tucked up in bed asleep when she broaches the subject.

"I don't look like her, do I?" she asks of the elder; straightforward and on point, because why waste either of their time dancing round it?

"No," Jack tells her, apparently of the same opinion for once, and Natasha doesn't have to spell out whom she's referring to. "And she died before he was even a year old, so he don't remember her none anyway."

"Oh, ok," she murmurs, "That's good."

Jack nods, but doesn't call her on the events of earlier. Doesn't ask her if it's really such a bad thing that someone would – could – mistake her for Francis's mother.

"What about the other one?" is what Jack does say. "Seen him yet? 'cos he'll remember her plenty, I imagine."

"No, he's still away," Natasha replies, fully aware she's being vague now, "I had a work thing, he had a work thing and I'm here."

"Mmm, indeed," the elder murmurs, and then tells her, "Well, in any case, you're more sexy siren to her wholesome chickadee-next-door routine, which, no offense, girlie, but you ain't ever gonna squeeze into no matter how many hair dyes you get done."

Natasha considers this with a pinch of salt. In any case, it's usually more beneficial in her job to stand out. She is, after all, generally considered the bait to lure the target in. Although she prides herself on being whatever she needs to be at any given moment: the ultimate chameleon.

"Not that you don't do a good job of putting up a show on your little excursions here, mind. And not to say she wasn't a tasty little thing herself, who could wield that stick of hers like nothing I've never seen before; but no, to answer your question, you don't look like her," Jack concludes, and then because this is Jack and she has a tendency not to know when to shut-up, she adds, "He's not gonna look at you an' see her – or at least, he shouldn't if his memory's even remotely intact in that regard." She rolls her eyes, gestures towards the bedroom door Natasha knows houses a certain eight-year-old. "Which, let's be real, it may not be given the sprog I've ended up with."

She smiles at that, allows herself it this time with the words, "He knows his father."

"Aye, don't we all," is Jack's retort.

Natasha nods in agreement; her sentiments exactly.

.

She's sitting next to him on the lounge sofa while a cartoon plays on the widescreen in front of them; something about a yellow-haired Elvis impersonator with a chest three times the size of his lower body. Logic tells her that the concept is ridiculous, but then she remembers Clint telling her the cartoons the kid watches are generally designed to be just that and a little ridiculousness is hardly going to kill him.

There's a card lying discarded on the cushion between them where the remote is positioned within a tiny hand's reach. It still wouldn't make his position angled as he is any less awkward; although it would save her a maneuver and free up the arm that he has pinned by the sleeve against the sofa.

Instead she reaches across with her other arm and plucks the card from its position, bypassing the downright terrible drawing on the front to flip it open and scan the inside. In saying that, the animals on the front of the kid's gray tee aren't exactly museum-worthy either: one's a snake with a blindfold on and she doesn't even know what the other's supposed to be. 'Ninjas' is outlined in black between the two animals clear enough, however. No doubt another of Jack's jokes.

She leans forward again and taps his knuckles with the edge of the card to garner his attention, holding it up when he turns to face her. "What's this?"

"Early Valentine's Day gift," Francis grunts in return, looking suitably unimpressed in the sparing glance he gives it, "Supposed to be from a girl in my class."

The poem, for lack of a better term, reads: _Roses are red, Violets are blue, You have nice hair, and you don't smell like poo._ It's written in large lettering with exaggerated swirls and signed _Love Suzy_. Attached to the underside is a pocket mirror that has a miniature fold-out brush inside and an oversized lopsided bow on top, crudely stuck to a stack of aftershave samples. Honestly? It's a bit much. Also, kids these days really need to work on their penmanship and what they consider to be a compliment, because this? This does not count.

"I looked it up," he tells her, "It's from this show."

She looks across to the TV and the caption reads: _Lesson #5: Foreign chicks love big buff American men._ Natasha resists the urge to laugh, that one she might share with Clint.

By the time it's about half-way through, she's already ascertained that this is most definitely _not_ one of the cartoons the kid should be watching. There's a stream of women who systematically reject the man and his shockingly bad advances in a variety of inventive ways - some with a slice of violence thrown in, and those are definitely her kind of women. So there's that, but it's still not the sort of viewing she'd choose for the kid.

And then on walks on the redhead with the big hair and the right words and cartoon equivalent martial arts moves to boot and Natasha just knows this is going to end horribly. She's not entirely sure why she's not switched the TV off yet.

It turns out the gorgeous redhead's a spy, because of course she is.

The kid doesn't even bat an eyelid. In fact, when the credits start to run soon after he proclaims, "Well, that was stupid."

So maybe they're doing something right after all.

"Just like this," he adds, reaching out and flicking the corner of the folded card, which then tries to imbed itself in the soft gray cotton of her sweat pants. It ultimately fails even though hers don't offer nearly the same thickness as the kid's own black pair. Apparently Jack doesn't skimp on quality garments for any of them though, which is handy to know. "Susie spells her name with an 's' and an 'i-e', not a 'z-y'," he looks up to inform her, "And she's nice and smart. This is rubbish and stupid an' I'm pretty sure she owns a calendar, so she'd have made sure to give it to me on the right day."

Her lips twitch at the sheer indignation in his voice that they thought they could put one past him without him noticing.

She decides to test her theory with a simple: "Why'd you bother to watch the show if you knew she wasn't the one responsible?"

Francis gives her a look like he knows what she's trying to do (not quite), but his smile wins out and he tells her, "You lot're always saying knowledge is power." He shrugs, "I know it was them, _and_ where they got all the stuff from, but they don't know I know _any_ of that. 'Means I can get them back twice as good."

A green hi-top sneaker knocks against one of hers, a far more non-descript black version that rests atop the coffee table, and its silver swoosh winks at her in the flicker from the TV as he makes sure he has _her_ full attention now.

"An' besides," the eight-year-old tells her, "I have you lot to teach me stuff, so I'm always gonna come out on top."

She laughs outright at that.

Kid's grinning at her, especially pleased with himself now. And as he leans forward, unable to contain his glee, she catches sight of the back of his tee and the word: ' _Lethal_ ' stamped across it in block black capitals.

Yes, they've definitely done something right by him.

.

"Do you think you love him?" Francis asks her when Jack's gone inside to make them tea and they're sitting out on the porch. "Archer?"

Valentine's Day's tomorrow and she's not said anything about it. He knows old people usually do old people stuff for it, but Arch isn't here and neither's Uncle Phil so maybe that's why she's been all quiet and weird lately.

"I know who you were referring to," she tells him, still staring up at the stars even though he's stopped pointing out all the constellations they can see from their spot in the world. He'd been trying to match them with the ones on his glow-in-the-dark pjs, which are awesome by the way. Jack should've been a stylist. 

"Well?" he prompts, because if she knows that then she has an answer for him too. And he knows what _he_ thinks about it; he wants to know what _she_ thinks. "Do you?"

"When I was younger, the people I was with told me ' _Love is for children_ '." She shrugs and the big gray jumper she's got on bunches up even more around her arms. "Sometimes," she says and turns to look at him with a blank face and words that now sound like they match, "Sometimes I do not think they were wrong."

"Well that's just dumb," is his immediate response to that.

She coughs out something he's gonna take to be an attempt at a laugh. Maybe it is in Gnat world. "You disagree?"

She seems amused by his opinion and his blatant disregard to give any sort of credit to her own. He scoffs; like that wasn't obvious. "Yes," he states bluntly.

"Are you going to elaborate?" she enquires and lifts an eyebrow as she does so, shifting the leg that's supposed to be mending and tucking her other beneath her so her black leggings skim across the cushions like the pebbles he and Arch tossed over the lake that one Summer.

"Are you going to tell me what I have to say is dumb if I do?" he replies, because he knows the sorts of tricks she plays; and some of them are dirty, like Jack's and Archer's. They all have a mean streak in them they like to use to 'teach' him stuff. He thinks they just do it for a cheap laugh.

"That depends," Gnat replies and smirks back, making like a parrot in those pirate movies he's seen and saying what he did in a voice that he doesn't think sounds like his, but definitely isn't her usual one either, "On if what you have to say is _dumb_."

"If love was jus' for kids then Arch wouldn't watch you even when your back's turned and there's no one around, and you wouldn't look back at him 'cos you know he's there even when no one else does. An' you wouldn't say each other's names in that funny way you do sometimes, like you got your own language hidden inside an' they're presents only you get to open," he tells her, because he knows this. He's not going to stop, not going to let her interrupt or tell him he's wrong because _he knows this_. Just like he knows Jackie loves him 'cos she looks after him and hugs him and kisses him and keeps him safe and tucks him in at night and no one _no one_ else does it like her. "An' you wouldn't make that face that you do when he's hurt, like you wanna crush the world between your hands instead of leaving us standing when he can't."

Francis gulps down a breath and then another and waits for her to say something, but she doesn't say anything.

"If love was for children like those dumb folks told you," he tells her and she's watching him so closely now, his eyes and his mouth and his hands; she's taking in everything he has to say, "He'd have made that arrow go through you, and you wouldn't keep coming home to us."

.

 **TBC** – in Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, feel free to let me know your thoughts   
> Steph  
> xxx


	5. Eight Years, Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Flashbacks are in bold italics  
> Anything in another language other than spoken English will generally be in italics.
> 
> WARNING: herein also lies swear words.
> 
> Enjoy :)

.

"What happened to his eye?" Natasha questions when she enters the room more sure-footed than she's felt since she stepped (ok, so maybe she limped a little) onto the property four days ago.

Her eyes shift to the two overzealously decorated owl cards she watched the kid put together a couple of days ago that now sit propped up front and centre on the woman's desk.

"Thought today was supposed to be about love not war," she comments.

Jack looks up from where she seems to be soldering a series of wires to a circuit board; although knowing the elder putting it in such layman's terms doesn't even scratch the surface of what she's currently undertaking with the electronics.

"Cute," is what the elder says to that, but the quick flash of white in her eyes says something else entirely. She jerks her head in the direction of the kitchen and tells Natasha, "Ask him, he's the one who got sucker punched."

So she does.

"You going to tell me what happened?" she asks him, and the response she receives is a grunt as he tries to move past her.

Like that was ever going to work.

"Hey!" Natasha thrusts a red and black plaid-covered arm out in front of him to halt him in his tracks. She pulls him back with a firm hand on the woolen padding on his shoulder, grasping his chin between her fingers and lifting his face up so she can get a proper look at him. "How'd you get the black eye?"

"Kid in my class hit me," Francis relinquishes sullenly, shifting bodily out of her hold. His eyes flicker down to the floor where he kicks out at the tiles in unmasked frustration and his bare sole skims across the surface with a whoosh of displaced air.

She looks down at his hands next, turning them over and lifting them up to inspect for any damage, frowning when she sees none. "And you didn't hit him back?" She meets his eyes, still frowning.

She's sure those homely made-for-TV movies use moments like this to dissuade the American youth from committing acts of violence against one another, pulling out some well-spun tale or metaphor of why words are better used in defense of the self and how walking away is the mark of a better man. Only he's still just a kid and she's never been known to do anything other than stand her ground, next to a partner renowned for his similarly stubborn outlook.

Francis is wearing a frown of his own now and a split-second thought runs through her that maybe she shouldn't be so hard on the kid for not splitting the jaw of his peer wide open in retribution for taking a potshot at his (albiet inherently hard) head.

"Not with my fists," he responds, like she should know this, like she should know better because apparently he does, "Elbow's sharper and harder, Gnat. I used that instead."

And then he's grinning at her and there is absolutely no mistaking his parentage: only a maniac like Clint Barton could produce an offspring with similar pride in such dirty fighting (she prefers there to be a tad more finesse when the opportunity presents itself and she's allowed to be picky).

Natasha takes said arm in hand and pushes the navy woolen cuff of his cardigan up until it's past the bend and she can inspect that area too.

"'Got him right in the nose. You should've seen it, Gnat, it puffed up like a balloon and there was blood everywhere!" his enthusiastic commentary picks up, and he's clearly not paying any more attention to her actions, "I saw him after school when Jack came to get me and he had the biggest black eyes ever – like a panda. It was awesome!"

He continues to look at her, that expectant look on his face and she rolls her eyes, finally releasing her hold of him as she relents, "Oh, go on then." She breathes out an overly exasperated sigh as she repeats her original question this time already knowing what the answer will be, "What happened to your eye?"

Kid's positively beaming at her as he replies, "If you think this is bad, you should see the other guy."

He doubles over with laughter, falling forward and she rolls her eyes at him, but doesn't move him from his position, pressed close into her.

After a few minutes where he's still meshed against her black tank and half concealed within her shirt, Natasha coaxes him up with the words, "Come on."

"Where are we going?" Francis questions, even as he follows her, although the cuffs of his pants drag across the floorboards with his slow movements.

"Outside," she turns to tell him, then opens the door and waits until he walks ahead of her into the open air.

"You're supposed to be _resting_ ," he criticizes her plan instantly, pointing out what he considers a main flaw.

"Oh I've had plenty of that already," she dismisses his concerns with an airy wave, continuing her path.

She flicks her ankle and catches his as he steps onto the porch and were it not for inbuilt acrobatic skills and the fact he's actually quite light on his feet, he'd have face-planted the wooden beams. She doesn't even attempt to hide her amusement.

He turns to her with a scowl and she clucks her tongue at him. "Come on. We've got to hone those skills of yours sometime – unless you _want_ to be caught off guard again?" she teases, delving into her repertoire and plucking out an over exaggerated performance perfect for this occasion, "I'm sure all _your_ admirers would be able to look past _your_ panda eyes just this once, given how special this day is, being _Valentine's Day_ and all."

He shrugs, unfazed. "That's one I'd hafta run by Archer," he tells her, and she knows how he's going to spin this even before he's finished speaking because he's a cocky little shit who's spent entirely too much time around his _Archer_ , watching and listening and learning and imitating. "'Cos he's _definitely_ broken his nose a good few times an' you still wanna be seen out with him _all the time_."

She thinks it'll be worth enduring Jack's wrath to go a few rounds with the kid and drop him in the mud and the grass while he's wearing those clean khaki pants of his. Might shut him up for a minute too.

"An' since we all know I'm the prettiest of our bunch I should have no problem getting the hunnies to stick around, whatever day of the week it is," he concludes with a brimming smile, eyes positively shining in the afternoon light.

Oh, she is so gonna get him for that.

Francis crouches almost instinctively and she lunges for him, catching him easily the third time he tries to dance out of her reach and stumbles on feet too quick for the rest of him. He dissolves in a puddle of giggles still captured in her arms and Natasha smiles at the large green grass mark smeared across his knee like a proposal. She lies back, balancing the weight of him against her, and looks up at a sky that's the familiar color of his eyes.

.

He arrives late that night, or early morning depending on how you define it, and slides into the bed next to her. As timing would have it, he missed all the excitement that came with smashing the Hell out of that giant piñata she and the kid spent hours creating for Jack that looked like a real beating heart (because he's weird like his carer). She's no doubt Francis will fill him in on it almost immediately when he notices Clint's presence in the morning.

"Where'd he get the shiner?" he asks, and Natasha smiles in the darkness: of course his first stop would be to check on the kid.

"One of his classmates hit him," she replies, turning more toward him.

"Oh yeah?" he responds, and he shifts positions to be nearer to hers, reaching out and curling a blonde spiral around his finger as it falls across her face.

"Don't worry, papa bear," she assures him with a wink, cups his cheek and feels the light hair growing along his jaw underneath, "I've got it covered."

She sees him quirk an eyebrow in the tired planes of his face, the rationed light funneling in through the curtains. "That so?"

"Oh yeah," she returns, swaps her own regular brand of confidence for some of the swagger and cockiness that she's watched walk around in his miniature replica this past week, "Gnat's got this."

His chuckle is half muffled by the pillow as he nods, and then it transforms as he notices her shirt and she watches the grin slowly rise on his face in the dark.

Clint plucks playfully at the front of her tee; a simple gray number that would be fairly unassuming were it not for the two interlocking black arrows and the swooping ' _hello_ ' positioned near the bottom of her heart.

She's fuelling Jack's personal entertainment right now and she knows it, because this top? It was most definitely supplied for this exact reaction, on both their parts.

And _he_ finds it downright hilarious, naturally.

"I like this," Clint tells her, although she already knows.

Natasha smiles, indulgent, easy and true. "Yeah, 'thought you might."

She lets him pull her into him with his fingers pinching the space between the arrows cross-linked by her heart.

There is a reason she comes back and it sounds a lot like the smile she hears in his voice.

.

Clint awakens a few hours later to the unwelcome blindness from the sun streaming fully through the centre crack in the curtains, and the sounds of dull thumps and hard thuds that would shake the surroundings were they any nearer.

When he manages to make it outside, he's rewarded with a front row view of exactly how Nat has " _got this covered_ ". The kid circles her, performing exaggerated movements while she coaches him on the finer points of taking an opponent down in close quarters.

"You two enjoying yourselves?" he calls out from the porch, steaming mug in one hand and a water bottle in the other.

He bends down slowly to pick up the pebble resting next to his bare foot, swaps the bottle to his other, already occupied, hand and tosses the flat rock in their direction. It lands where he intended it to; skidding across the ground near enough to garner the kid's attention, but not close enough to actually take his eye out or anything.

He switches the bottle back to his other hand and then holds up the prize as he announces, "Winner's trophy."

The kid turns and Natasha uses the opportunity to sweep his legs out from under him, causing him to land on the ground with an audible _oof_.

"What have I just been trying to teach you?" she schools him, hovering over him so he can't squirm away from her words or her lessons, "Always be aware of your surroundings."

That's actually a really good thing to teach him, because the kid can be pretty awful at paying attention to more than one thing at one time. So she has a point there.

She looks over at Clint as he stands there watching them, a smile playing on his lips. She shakes her head at him and he lifts his shoulders and holds out his arms in a gesture that screams of ' _How is this my fault?_ '

'Course the little man sees that as his opening. Francis wraps his skinny ankles around her leg and when Natasha looks down, kid twists his body round and yanks her foot out from under her, sending her crashing to the thick grass beside him.

Clint lets out a guffaw at the action and in an instant the kid springs to his feet, bounds across the plane and skips up the stairs to where he stands. Natasha sits up and snarls in their direction.

Francis leaps upwards and snatches the water bottle out his hand and Clint just lets him. He ruffles the kid's hair as he jumps across the threshold back into the house, and lets his praise reach across the space between them, "Nicely done, kid."

She's dusting the grit from her pants as he approaches. He gestures to the mug in his hand, "You knew you wanted this one anyway." He almost laughs, but settles on a half-smirk instead; safer. "'Kid doesn't even like water, not enough sugar, he was just doing it to prove he could best you at something."

She glares at him. It only makes him smile, and he doesn't even try to slow its progression, because she's clearly been spending too much time around Jack and the kid and it shows. It's also fucking hilarious. He can't wait to hear the stories.

"You were teaching him to fight dirty," he defends his words on the kid's behalf, "You should be proud!"

"No, _you_ teach him to fight dirty," Natasha rephrases with a knowing look, " _I_ was teaching him to win by any means necessary."

He figures they're both the same thing and she's just being grouchy and nitpicking, but he's not so much an idiot that he'd add that in so he just holds out the mug for her to take. She doesn't bother. Definitely grouchy then.

She walks past him and hops up the steps like she didn't just have her ass handed to her by an eight-year-old (and yes he is going to remember that for a long, long time to come and enjoy replaying it over and over in his mind). Also, he says _walks_ , but if ever there was a complete embodiment of the term _sashays_ he's watching it in her right now. She's such a little minx.

"So you _don't_ want this?" he calls after her, holding up the mug in question, although it's fairly obvious what she thinks about it already.

"Not when I have a winner's trophy to collect!" is her response, and she throws him a look over her shoulder that should really be accompanied by a wink, before sliding past the open door and slinking inside.

Well, this should be interesting.

At the very least, they should provide something for him to remember them by.

.

What happens is this: they chase each other round the house like they're playing cat and mouse, except they lob random things at one another at every turn and toss pieces of furniture across the space to trip the other up.

The kid's aim is pretty spot on actually, but Nat's better at dodging things of a sharp and heavy nature – to be honest, she generally finds a way out of any and all things thrown in her direction.

Eventually though she manages to clip the speedy cheetah's ankles together and he collides with a stray chair leg lying in his path.

He's on his way to face-planting Jack's good wood when the woman herself appears before them all and catches her little darling in her arms.

She also catches the water bottle that goes flying out the kid's hand when Nat throws a tennis ball at his outstretched arm for good measure.

"Mine, I believe," Jack tells them, and a triumphant smile rises on her face.

.

After their early morning escapades (emphasis on _early_ ) Jack had sent the kid to shower and get himself ready for school. That actually worked out in their favor since Clint had the chance to give Natasha a proper once-over and pin her to the bed to rewrap the injuries she was pretending didn't exist (nothing new there then) after her squirrelly encounter with the resident imp.

Clint enters the kitchen wearing dark jeans instead of sleep pants and a T-shirt left sitting out for him on the bed (and a pair of shoes that he'd slipped on instead of his boots just to shut Jack up, but that's another point). Francis is sitting at the kitchen table, one hand spooning cereal into his mouth and the other fiddling with one of his hearing aids. It'd be far easier if he just committed both hands to the task, but as usual, the kid is fully aware of this and chooses instead to go with the opposite. Clint's not completely oblivious to that method himself, so he's not about to judge. It is a slight improvement in the kid's attention-splitting ability though, so maybe Nat is handling it after all.

" _What are you wearing?_ " he asks when he steps closer, eyeing up the black fur on the kid's… everything. " _Lemme rephrase that: what're you supposed to be?_ "

Francis looks up at him with utter disdain for his humor and/or ability to grasp the apparent obviousness. " _It's a gorilla suit._ "

" _'Course it is_ ," Clint says, like he should've known. " _And you willingly let her buy your clothes?_ " he remarks, fully aware who's responsible for his own attire. " _What? Was there a Halloween sale at the local mall? Or'd she send you out into that forest she loves so much and make you bring home a pelt of your own to parade around in, 'cos it's that cold here in the middle of_ February?"

" _Were you on the same assignment as Gnat? 'cos she came back all weird too_ ," the kid retorts and it's as snarky as it usually is when he throws in words that are longer than his arm. " _It's warm_ ," he defends, and then he grins and says, " _You're just jealous 'cos Jackie doesn't buy you nice things to keep you all cozy and comfy like she does me._ "

Clint's not fazed by this; he is fazed by the fact the kid is all bundled up inside an animal costume like they're in the wilds of the frozen North. " _Might have something to do with the fact I'm not eight,_ " he says flatly.

" _Or she just doesn't like you as much,_ " Francis practically sing-songs.

" _Well that we all know, _" he responds without much difficulty.__

" _You don't like the top she got you?_ " the kid speaks up, acting the innocent, naïve little angel he pretends all-too-often to be outside these walls and this company to unsurprising effect. " _Jack was all upset you weren't here yesterday to wear it. She got them 'special for you and everything._ "

He looks down at the gray T-shirt that looks sort of purple-ish in this light and reads: _You make my heart quiver_.

" _Yeah, I bet,_ " he comments, not falling for the act one bit; like he wasn't making good money hustling folks with the same easy tactics when he wasn't much older than the kid is now, " _She's real thoughtful like that is Jack._ "

The shirt even comes complete with a heart pierced by an arrow and little lines that move with every breath he takes like the thing's actually _quivering_ in someone's presence.

He looks to Natasha as she enters then, and immediately eyes up the red tee on _her_ frame (that conveniently doesn't clash with her hair given the recent dye-job). There's two little cartoon black spiders on her chest, which he figures are supposed to be black widows given the little red hourglasses on their backs, and a speech bubble of one saying to the other: _Single again? What happened?_

"Aw, Nat, not you too," he commiserates.

"I was accosted the moment I tried to leave the room," she answers to that, and pulls open the nearest cupboard to make herself a drink.

"And you just let her strong-arm you like that?" he asks, allowing the disappointment to show in his voice and his face.

She lifts one shoulder, seemingly not too bothered as she continues with her current task. "I figured I owed her one from earlier."

" _Aw you chose that one?_ " the kid pipes up at that, not hiding his own disappointment, cereal finished or forgotten by this point. " _I was hoping you'd go for the other one._ "

Clint turns back to her with one eyebrow raised, but Francis continues and answers for her.

"It had the same little spiders on the front, and one says to the other: _Did you see his legs? I ate them all up –_ but like **eight** the number, 'cos that's how many legs a spider has," Francis clues him in, grinning and apparently amusing himself so much right now he only needs one way to communicate. "That was a good one. I liked that."

"What about any of this screams _wouldn't hurt a fly_?" he questions, directing it more to his partner than the kid under Jack's care who is unbelievably and unshakably loyal to the woman.

Said kid cracks up next to him. "Ha, good one, Arch. 'Cos flies get caught in spider's webs and munch munch _munched_."

Natasha's leaning against the counter watching the two of them now. Her lips curve and she lifts the mug she has cupped between both hands with a look to say: _you did walk into that one._

"I'd put mine on too so we all match, but I wore it yesterday so it's in the basket to be washed," comes the grumble from short-stuff between them, who then suddenly has a light-bulb moment. "Wait! I'll go get it to show you! It's a real good 'un too, Arch!"

And he scampers off to apparently do just that, all happy and non-scowly.

"Seriously," Clint turns to Natasha, "How does anyone buy the old dear routine of hers when she's always doing shit like this?"

She shrugs, takes a steady gulp of her drink. "Because they don't know any better."

"Yeah?" he says, with a laugh. "Then what's our excuse?"

"You're both idiots!" comes the shout from the next room: asked and answered.

They should've expected that to be the extent of Jack's input.

.

Jack must've caught him on his running travels because the kid's changed into real clothes when his sneakers slide across the floor and he comes skidding to a stop before the pair of them as they polish off the contents of their drinks.

" _Go on then_ ," Clint prompts, nods to the scrunched up material caught within the kid's tiny, bony fist, "Impress me with some more of your guardian's wit."

"Should've got that top in green for you, Arch," Francis retorts, "You're all kinds of jealous."

Natasha hides her smile behind the rim of her coffee cup, not very well, but she's probably not trying very hard.

He lifts his eyebrows and the kid straightens, yanking up the white T-shirt and flattening it against his front, attempting to make a dent in the creases by smoothing it out right to the edges so they can see it in all its glory. There's various cartoon birds on the front along with the words: _Sorry chicks, I'm already toucan. I'm in dove with somebirdy else. It was love at first flight and I'm raven mad about her._

"And I gave these out to the girls in my class," Francis says, as smug as a little kid can be when he's knowingly fucked with the plans of every other male in his grade.

He lets the shirt fall to the side, grasped between spindly fingers, and thrusts a small card forward. There's an outline of a bird where it looks like something should be stuck on the front and inside it reads: _I hope you have a pheasant Valentine's Day and find somebirdy who sparrows no expense in tweeting you right._

The kid grins at them both and nods to the card as he retakes his previous seat at the kitchen table and says, "You can keep that one if you want, Gnat. Sorry there's no cookie, but you ate them all."

Tasha rolls her eyes at that and swigs the last of her drink; it's debatable whether that means the kid's words hold much truth or not.

"Is this all your doing?" he asks, lifts the card up again before passing it across to his partner who places her mug on the counter and takes it from him, holding it between the thumb and forefinger on each hand.

"Well, Jack drew all the pictures and baked the cookies 'cos she's the best like that," Francis tells him and that is the God's honest truth, "But I did all the wordy stuff myself – _and_ it was all my idea."

"Yeah, I bet," Clint remarks with a laugh. "What happened? You run out of space for more puns on there or you run out of birds to use as words?"

“Well I _was_ gonna stick to the owl theme an’ put one on the front saying ‘ _Who loves you?_ ’ That’s ‘h-o-o’ to keep it right. And then have ‘ _not me_ ’ inside, but I thought I’d be better saving that for the people I don’t like instead. So I did and it was great,” he sounds positively gleeful as he says it and he looks it too, “The best would’ve been if I’d put ‘ _no-birdy_ ’ inside, but Jackie said it was a bit much. You can have one, Arch – and no cookie for you either, but not ‘cos Gnat ate them, jus’ ‘cos mean folks shouldn’t get nice, sweet things.”

"Sometimes I worry about your sociopathic tendencies, kid," Clint mentions blankly.

He flicks the corner of the card attached to the fridge door, the one that does have an owl theme.

"But s'good to hear you don't have any plans to try your hand at this career-wise 'cos you will literally experience the starving artist routine," he says, and lets out a laugh as he eyes up the scraggly artwork. "You can't draw for shit, kid."

"Jackie put it up there 'cos she's _proud_ of my work," Francis snaps back with a distinct _so there_ look.

"I'm proud of your work too!" Clint insists, and he does mean it; but even he has to draw the line somewhere. And he can only bullshit the kid so much. "I'm jus' saying don't expect to be raking in the cash jus' 'cos you've mastered the art of staying in the lines when you color in your mutant looking stick-men."

The kid fits him with a look of utter indifference, and casually remarks, "Better than you."

He spares a second to raises an eyebrow in response as he takes up a seat of his own and Nat decides to vacate the area. Apparently she's choosing not to get involved in this particular debate. He does so enjoy it when the little shit gives as good as he gets. "Oh, yeah? How'd you figure?"

"Well, I did it and you didn't so I'm already _lightyears_ ahead of you," Francis smarts back.

He scoffs; like that means anything. "How d'you know I'm not a world-class drawer or crafter or some shit?"

Kid lifts a brow, like phrasing it like that isn't evidence enough, and snarks, "I'm also gonna have more money by the end of your visit if you keep that up."

"You and that rule," he mutters, deliberately missing out the _fucking_ in between, but reaching into his pocket and fishing out a couple of crumpled up notes anyway, slapping them into the palm of the kid's open, waiting hand. "What d'you even do with all the money anyway?"

Francis looks up from where he’s pretty much stroking the paper bill in his hand like that freaky mole person with the ring in those fantasy films they watched that went on for _hours_. The archery was decent, even if it was coming from a guy with pointy Spock-ears and braids of flowing blond locks.

"Put it in the collection on Sunday, duh," is the eight-year-old's response.

"Seriously?" Clint asks, incredulous; because sometimes it's hard to tell which Holier-than-thou crap is for real and what they use just to take the piss out of him and his apparent ignorance on all things Jesus.

"Yeah," Francis replies, draws it out like he's also asking why the elder would think he'd ever lie about such a thing. Kid can be such a smarmy little fucker when he pulls tricks like these, but he does learn most of them from Clint or Tash or Jack, so being pissed about it's pretty redundant. Besides, it can be hella entertaining to watch. "An' it makes Jack happy," he says, like that should also be obvious.

"Course it does," Clint notes, and then smirks, needles a bit more, "You could jus' say you're buying your way into Heaven, I'm not gonna tattle on you."

The kid shoots him a look. "And that's precisely one of the reasons you won't be there, you big heathen."

"You're not being very charitable, right now," he points out.

Francis shrugs. "You're not being very nice, full stop."

Ok, so the kid may have a point. Clint wonders if Coulson's been teaching him chess again.

"Yeah, sorry," he says, reaching out to the kid, "Come here."

Francis eyes his outstretched hand. "No take-backs!" he exclaims, pulls bodily away and clutches the money to his chest, "And 'sides, it's already set to go to God an' you gotta be out of your mind to go up against Him."

He shakes his head, rolls his eyes and scoots forward, lifting the chair by its seat so the legs don't scrape too painfully off the floor. "Shut-up," he says, holds out his hand again when he's closer, right in front of the kid in fact, " _I'm tryna apologize here._ "

"Oh." There's a little frown and then it fades on a face too young to hold the marks of the past. The bills are shoved into the side pocket of his pants, the chain attached to his belt rattling with the movement. " _Ok._ "

He beckons him over and when the kid eventually leans forward another inch, Clint reaches around his tiny, wiry frame and bundles him up into his arms, pulling Francis into him.

" _I'm sorry, ok?_ " he says, when the kid's perched sideways on his lap.

Francis leans back into his chest, and resting his head on Clint's shoulder the eight-year-old nods his acceptance.

" _Sometimes when I've been away so long it takes me longer to remember what's waiting for me on the other side,_ " he explains and it's true.

" _Maybe you and Gnat should stop doing funny things to your hair,_ " the kid tells him, and shifts to place both hands on either side of his face, smoothing down the beard that's started to form since his last assignment. " _'Cos you both act like you're other people and I like the real you best._ "

Clint's not sure what to say to that, not sure if there's much he can say.

So he stays as he is, with Francis in his arms, and lets himself be himself for his own sake as much as the kid's.

.

"He didn't show you the back, did he?" Jack says knowingly when the boys have left to walk to school and they're watching the pair amble down the path.

Natasha turns to the elder and the kid's T-shirt is flung across the space towards her.

She catches it in one hand and flips it over, lifting it up to get a good look at what the elder's referring to. And there on the back for the world to see are two blue-footed, light-breasted, dark-winged birds accompanied by the sassy exclamation ' _Cute boobies_ '.

"His grand finale," Jack tells her, smiling unashamedly, "For the walk home."

"I'm surprised none of the girls or their mothers tried to jump him," is what she says to that.

"Most of them get the bus home, so he got a few catcalls out the back windows as they went by," the other woman informs her, "I have it on good authority that my drawings were spot on for likeness, hence all the girlish giggling that followed us instead."

Natasha finds that hard to believe; something doesn't quite add up here.

Jack shrugs. "Apparently they're all studying up on birds this term for a school-wide trip to the state bird sanctuary. So the shirt was better received than you'd believe."

Natasha shakes her head; he does his homework all right, and he knows how to use that good looking face and cheeky, but innocent personality to get away with all the stupid little stunts he likes to pull.

The kid may just outlive them all and Jack looks like she knows it and she’s as proud as can be.

.

Clint's walking him to school and because the kid's a right little shit, he's wearing a bright green T-shirt with a black shaded graphic on the front of a pair of boxing gloves and the neon pink slogan: _'Knock Out'._ Ok, so it's sort of awesome (kid had to get his quirks from somewhere).

"So what'd he hit you for anyway?" he finally asks, figures he might as well broach the subject at some point on this journey.

"What?" Francis says, distractedly readjusting his gray beanie over his ears, so it slouches at the back of his head and leaves his blonde hair free to spike out at all angles over his brow.

He fits him with a look, because he knows the kid can hear him. Just to prove the point, he pulls his hands from the pockets of his zip-up hoodie and knocks his knuckles against the eight-year-old's shoulder to make sure he has his attention. Then he turns himself halfway round as he walks and accompanies the spoken words with the appropriate signs as he rephrases, " _Why did the other kid hit you?_ "

Francis shoots him an irritated look for playing dirty and using their shared language to make him answer; despite the fact he usually always answers when you ask him something directly. This time is no different.

Hands drop from where they'd moved on to tugging at the gray scarf looped around his scrawny neck and then Francis starts to sign back.

" _He was trying to make me feel bad,_ " he starts, words thick with annoyance. " ** _Brick_** ," he spits out the word like it personally offended him, which in a nutshell is basically exactly what happened, " _And he's as thick as one too, so you don't forget it in a hurry._ "

Clint waits for him to continue, add a bit more explanation into his response than he's currently giving.

" _We were all outside 'cos the warning bell for the start of class hadn't gone yet, and he starts trying to pick a fight with me, like he's showing off, trying to pick followers from the crowd,_ " Francis divulges, rolls his eyes and his head about his shoulders like the content was tedious enough to live through the first time without having to retell it all now. " _An' that was fine, 'cos anyone who does follow after him is as stupid as he is, an' I was being really good and all patient like Uncle Phil says you should be, like jus' letting them say all that stuff an' not saying anything back until they least expect it and then_ BAM! _Hit them with something awesome to really shut them up._ "

He wordlessly wonders if the kid skipped the wordy version and just went _BAM!_ with his elbow instead. He tends to prefer that method himself, although sometimes he can see the logic in Coulson's lessons. _Sometimes_. Time and a place and all that, as it appears the kid's learning.

" _Then he was started saying stuff about Jack,_ " Francis tapers off.

_Yup, that'd do it_ ; Clint thinks.

If the bruising residue left behind by this brat's face on the kid's elbow is anything to go by, Clint figures this _Brick_ probably realized pretty quick that was a bad move on his part.

" _He doesn't even know anything about her!_ " the kid exclaims, " _And even if he did, he shouldn't be saying nothin', 'cos she's better than him – she's better than all of them!_ "

He's agitated, and he glares at the road ahead and kicks out at it with his foot.

" _Some of the other kids started laughing, even though none of it was true, but they're all dumb anyway an' I told 'em so._ " The kid's getting more worked up, pent up frustration releasing in short bursts with the edge of his hand slapping against his palm and the fingers slicing through the air in quick fractured moves, his face a mix of hard planes and furrowed edges. " _An' I told him too, 'cos he's the dumbest of all._ "

Now comes the main event.

" _And then he hit me!_ " Francis says right on Clint's cue, indignation escaping the grinding of baby teeth. " _Stupid as-_ "

Clint calmly raises an eyebrow by way of response and Francis sheepishly retreats the word back where it came from, even his hand curls inwards mid-movement. Mixed-martial arts is one thing; excessive swearing is another entirely. Plus, Jack.

"- ** _idiot_** _hit me_!" he rephrases, " _Could've blinded me or knocked my aids out. Why should I be permanently disfigured 'cos he gets a lucky hit in after trying to insult me and mine?_ "

_Me and mine_. It's a term Clint knows the kid's learned from Jack, but there's so much belief in it, so much power drawn from it; it's what they live by and for. It's all the kid knows.

" _So I elbowed him right in the face_ ," Francis concludes, " _That shut him up._ "

Clint grins, allows himself the pride in the action and makes sure the kid sees it too.

The kid pauses, drags in a breath, and just stares at him for a minute.

" _I don't feel bad. He deserved it,_ " Francis eventually shares and Clint believes him word-for-word, " _I love Jack and she loves me and that moron tried to mess with that and he had no right!_ "

Clint wants to tell him no one ever has a right to take away what you love, but it doesn't stop them from trying to screw with you anyway, to destroy your life any way they can, with all they know how to do.

Instead he slings his arm over the kid's shoulders and pulls him bodily towards him to match him step-for-step. " _Sometimes you gotta put guys like that in their place,_ " he says; acceptance and approval and advice.

Sometimes you gotta put guys like that down before they rise up and try to put you down first.

" _Sometimes what you choose to believe and protect is more important than anything else,_ " he tells him. " _And you gotta defend it and fight to keep it with everything you have._ "

Like the kid. Like what he'd do for Francis. Anything and everything and then some. And he's not alone.

(He's not sure which is scarier.)

" _I'd do it for you too, Arch,_ " Francis tells him, quieter now, calmer, pressing himself close into Clint's side even as he signs the sentiment. The kid blinks up to him. " _You and Gnat and Uncle Phil and Jackie. I'd do anything for you_."

" _I know, kid_ ," Clint reassures him, tells himself again and again like he has since this all started and they first found each other that it'll never come to that: the kid will never have to fight the battle for them because that's their job, that's what they're here for; to protect him, to defend him, to fight to keep him. " _I know._ "

The problem with caring for someone is you run the risk of having them care for you right back.

_I got you, kid_ becomes _I got you too_.

.

He's eight years old when he believes they've all found something here, together. Something he knows they haven't got, can't get, elsewhere.

Where there is one, the other is inevitably not far behind; and that's what they'll defend and protect and fight for above all else.

He thinks that's pretty awesome.

.

**TBC**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: the 'have' via contraction or full word is deliberately missing from the last line, as it is in earlier chapters :)
> 
> I'd say there's only a few chapters left and they should be done and posted by Christmas/New Year, and since my forecasting has been absolutely on-point since I started this, you'd no doubt all believe me. HA!  
> Alas I'm saving us all the trouble, and just leaving it at: this will most-definitely be completed at some point, and life and muse agreeing that some point should be soon-ish.
> 
> Thanks for reading, please let me know your thoughts.  
> Steph  
> xxx


End file.
